


New Strings

by rivlee



Series: Nashville [1]
Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 40,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets in a modern au set in Nashville, TN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Learn My Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> First started in April 2011, the ficlets in this 'verse come from all different years. A semi-coherent fic timline in terms of events can be found [here](http://rivlee.livejournal.com/362679.html#cutid2).

**Summary:** Lip relies on Shifty. Shifty relies on Burgie. A small ficlet in the Ridic! Pop Star AU.

**Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title from Taylor Swift’s _Mine_.  
 **A/N:** Unbeated.

 

**_You Learn My Secrets_ **

 

R.V. Burgin couldn’t remember in so many words how he got conned into moving to Nashville, but he was sure it had something to do with his ex-boyfriend and promises of a better life somewhere outside of Texas. Four years later, his ex-boyfriend was a traveling musician for a Contemporary Country star and Burgie was stuck in a shitty house outside of Nashville, writing songs that made other people famous.

He knew he could go back to Jewett, that his parents still welcomed him home despite his lifestyle and choices, that even if he wanted to stay in the business he might find an easier go of it in Austin. But something about pride kept him from making that move back to his home state. Well, that and the fact he was in love with a workaholic who saw him as nothing but a friend. To be honest, the unrequited love _did_ help the songwriting process. Broken hearts still sold more records than happy homes.

It’s not that he hated Nashville, but it certainly wasn’t even half of what he dreamed. Even worse, he was an outsider here, not coming from a society group or a long family tradition, not tied to one of the major labels or a hand-picked composer for the next Country Music Television Sweetheart. He was just another name, another player in the Nashville machine, trying his damnedest to make ends meet.

Miss Matilda, the longest living matriarch of Jewett, always told him that life had a way of working itself out if you let it. He could hear her now, _You just have to be patient, Romus. Life ain’t meant to work at the pace you demand, it will go as it’s supposed to be_. 

Burgin always thought it was bullshit, never wanted to admit that living for eighty years gave you a unique perspective on things, but sooner or later, he’d have to call up the old biddy and ask her just when he was allowed to let his patience run out.

 

************

There were a whole group of bars and clubs patroned by the myriad of songwriters in Nashville, but Burgin preferred _Allison’s_ just outside the city limits. It was a an old, dark, hole-in-wall, which brought people from all over to hear local musician Eddie Jones play. Burgie loved to play, loved to talk to Eddie about music, swap stories about Texas with Mike Wynn, the bartender, and help the owner, Andrew Haldane, with any odd jobs. He was practically Haldane’s accountant, but it got his bar tab covered, so it’s not like he could complain. 

_Allison’s_ had its regulars, some stopping by for a drink before the long drive home, many of the Gaylord Opryland workers meeting somewhere far away from the tourists who plagued their daily working lives, and quite a few musicians who cared more about the craft than the paycheck. You could often tell the newcomers the minute they came in the door, mostly because they tripped over the slight drop between the doorway and the floor, too busy looking at the stage.

Burgie was at his normal place at the bar, when he saw a newcomer stumble inside. The guy had a disappointed look on his face, so clearly not from here. He sat down next to Burgie and ordered a beer.

“Sad you don’t see a crowd of line-dancing hicks in ten gallon hats and cowboy boots?” Burgie asked.

“Everything I was told about the South was a lie,” the guy said with a crooked smile. He held out his hand. “Bob Leckie.”

Burgie shook his hand and gave his own name. “We got a few stage shows and honky tonks if you really want to see that scene, but hell, most of that’s more in the Mid-West.”

“I was looking for an authentic Nashville experience,” Leckie said. “The hotel told me to come here.”

Burgie smirked. “Either they really liked you or really hated you. No one who plays here is looking for a record deal. There’s no slick country pop on this stage. More blues, bluegrass, rock and the like.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not looking for Nashville’s next major pop star,” Leckie said. “Though I admit, I was hoping to find something more romantic and mythical than a dive bar.”

“People don’t come here for the food or the décor.”

“Clearly,” Leckie said with a glance around the layout. “I don’t even know what you’d call this style.”

“It’s called, ‘shit we could find that didn’t fall off the wall,’” Hoosier, _Allison’s_ other bartender, said.

“Then I must congratulate you on your success at being mediocre,” Leckie said.

“Much obliged,” Hoosier answered. “Now that you’ve had the balls to insult the bar of the man who’s pouring your drinks, I’ve gotta ask what brings you to the Music City.”

“Rolling Stone.”

Burgie and Hoosier exchanged a laugh.

“Bullshit,” Burgie said. “The only time they cover country music is when it comes through Taylor Swift or Garth Brooks.”

“Or Willie Nelson,” Hoosier said, “they’ve always been a fan of the Outlaws.”

“We’re doing a Where-Are-They-Now/ 90s Celebration issue,” Leckie said. He took a long sip of his beer. “You remember that old boy band, 3B, went into such an oversaturated marketing trend that they had their own cereal?”

“Vaguely,” Burgie said while giving Hoosier an amused look.

“Rumor has it Lipton Marshall settled somewhere around Nashville,” Leckie said. “Since no one’s really seen him in ten years outside of red carpets and charity events, I was sent to delve into the mystery.”

“Is that so?” Hoosier asked.

“I hear a few other band members are in the area,” Burgie said.

“Yeah, but Joe Toye and Rick Luz always kept high profiles and everyone knows what happened to Nyx Ryer. As for Hoosier Smith, hell, even the fan’s online communities have given him up for dead.”

“Really,” Burgie said.

Hoosier leaned on the bar and studied the newcomer. “Leckie, would you say you’re a man who is good at his job?”

“One of the best,” Leckie answered without hesitation.

“Then I hope you find what you’re looking for. Who the hell knows? Tennessee is a big state, you may even finally find Elvis,” Hoosier said.

Leckie just laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

Burgie shook his head. It was true that ten years, a haircut and a decent wardrobe made Hoosier looks vastly different from his boy band days, but there was just enough of his past self that should’ve clicked for anyone, especially a reporter. Sure, the lack of baby fat and the militarily high-and-tight hairstyle made him look like an actual adult, or a punk kid, but even Burgie knew the first night he came into the bar, that _The_ Hoosier Smith was slinging out drinks, just for the hell of it.

“I’m going to head out,” he said as he pushed off his barstool.

“Eddie hasn’t even started yet,” Hoosier said.

“I need to see Shifty,” he answered.

Hoosier nodded. “You’re right, he needs to know the shit storm that’s about to come his way.”

“And there goes the myth of Hillbilly Eloquence,” Leckie said.

“Hey, fuck you, I’m from Indiana and he’s from Texas, we don’t count,” Hoosier said.

“Is anyone here actually from Nashville?” Leckie asked.

“Nope,” Burgie answered, waving to Bill as he left.

Leckie choked laughter almost ruined the moment.

************

Darrell ‘Shifty’ Powers was C. C. Winters right hand. C.C. Winters once went by the name Lipton Marshall, but was born Clifford Carwood Lipton. Most people who knew him as a friend simply called him Lip in private, and Lip desperately coveted his privacy. Not that anyone would blame a man for such when he spent so many of his formative years being a puppet on the world’s stage, watching as the excesses of his young career destroyed everyone around him.

It was out of respect for Lip that brought Burgie to the doorstep of Currahee Studios after hours. He put in the PIN number to open the doors, waved at Alex Penkala behind the desk, and went up to the third floor where he knew Shifty would be hiding.

Shifty sat behind his desk, brown hair falling into his face. Two laptops were open, and a whole stack of files sat on the table to the side of him. Burgie couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

“Some people believe in this thing called time off.”

“Lip depends on me,” Shifty answered.

“I don’t think he wants to depend on you into an early death.”

“I was an Army Ranger, Romus, I’ve long known I’m on borrowed time,” Shifty said. 

Burgie sat down in one of the chairs in front of Shifty’s desk. “I heard something at the bar tonight I think you need to know.”

Shifty actually looked up from his work. “If it’s a murder plot, I don’t want to know anything. I’ve already had to field calls from three different lawyers over Runner’s naked streak through the Parthenon at Centennial Park.”

“Hey, you’re the one who supervised that bet between him and Luz, how you ever let any of your employees actually bet on the Titans, I will never know.”

“I didn’t think Conley would actually do it,” Shifty said. “But I doubt you’ve come here to talk to me about bad football bets and their consequences.”

He nodded. There was no other way to do it but to just go ahead and tell him. “There’s a reporter from _Rolling Stone_ in town,” Burgie said. “He’s here to discover if Lipton Marshall really went all Howard Hughes.”

“Well that’s just rightly unsettling,” Shifty said.

Burgie fought the urge to smile. It never failed to amaze him how fast Shifty could switch from a slick Nashville businessman to the former Army Ranger who grew up on the Virginia-Kentucky border. 

“Do you think we can find a way to distract him?” 

Burgie shook his head. “I only talked to the guy for a few minutes, but he’s definitely not the kind of reporter here to rub elbows with rich folk. He seems like the type who lives to know the answer to the secret.”

Shifty cursed under his breath. “Just what we need, an actual writer. How worried do I need to be?”

“He didn’t recognize Hoosier, but I don’t think he’s an idiot. I suggest Lip does something if he doesn’t want the world finding out about his life now.”

“Lordy, imagine that cover story,” Shifty said. “Not only have they found Lip Marshall, but he’s living in sin with 506’s Ron Speirs and his two kids.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to have to call Buck in the morning.”

“Here’s a thought, why don’t you call Lip first before bringing in the legal teams? He always knew this was going to come to light anyway.”

“And he might have a say in it if we catch it soon enough,” Shifty agreed, “but either way, we’re going to need Buck. There are all types of clauses and contracts, and bullshit I don’t want to deal with right now.”

“Leckie, that’s the reporter, he just got here. You’ve got some time,” Burgie said.

Shifty sighed. “You certain of that?”

“Please, Hoosier was practically acting like he got a new toy. That’s good for at least two days distraction while he sends Leckie all over the state on fake leads. Hell, if we have to, set up an interview for Snafu. That’ll keep Leckie occupied for at least a week.”

“It is a wonder how Merriell mystifies everyone for days.”

“Cajun Mystique,” Burgie explained. Merriell ‘Snafu’ Shelton was a Southern Swamp Rock/Zydeco musician from the bayou who critics adored and journalists loved for his unique storytelling abilities. He was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, covered in bullshit that was worth more than gold.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Shifty quietly admitted.

Burgie stood up and moved over to stand beside him. He placed a calming hand on Shifty’s shoulder. “You’re going to go home, now, and get some rest so you’ll have a clear head in the morning. Then you’re going to talk to Lip while asking Popeye to run every background check he knows on Leckie, and then we’ll figure out where to go from there.”

Shifty nodded. He leaned his head back and looked up at him. “You’re not allowed to move back to Texas, you know,” he said. “I don’t care if I have to force you to take over as a producer for these studios, or sign you up with a deal for Screaming Eagle Publishing, but you’re the only sane one among us.”

Burgie smiled down at him. His life wasn’t how he planned it, and he lived in a shithole of a house working in a business that didn’t love him half as much as he loved it. But there were things and people here in Nashville he wasn’t going to leave, worth more than a nice house or a fat paycheck for him. And one of those reasons currently sat in a desk chair looking up at him with world weary eyes.

“Don’t worry, Shifty, I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.


	2. In the Land of the Delta Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search for Lipton Marshall sends Leckie all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title from Marc Cohn’s _Walking in Memphis_.
> 
> **A/N:** Unbeated. From a prompt requested by .

**_In the Land of the Delta Blues_ **

 

Bill “Hoosier” Smith wasn’t actually a sadistic man. He just took joy in watching other people make a fool of themselves. Asshole, yes. Sadistic, no. And frankly, any reporter sniffing around town trying to dig up the next great _Behind the Music_ story deserved any shit he threw their way. Bill, Lip, and their fellow members of 3B, George Luz, Joe Toye, and Lewis Nixon earned their rights to a private life over a decade ago. They’d all played the fame game, and while Nix, Luz, and Toye still sometimes liked to bask in the limelight, Lip and Bill liked their anonymity just where it was.

Which was why, when country crossover stars started to become more common, and paparazzi and reporters for major news outlets started coming to Nashville in noticeable numbers, Bill created a contingency plan to throw any and every one, crazy fans included, off their scent.

Honestly, none of them were really here for Bill anyway. Hoosier Smith, his name in the band and real life, was never the heartthrob of the group. He was there for vocal support and to round-out the required boy band number of five. He was the one they sent out to give interviews with the serious trade mags, knowing they’d waste more space talking about his attitude than any of their personal lives. Hoosier was practically anonymous within the band, and outside of it, years later, only people who actually still observed and paid attention to things recognized him.

Lip, though, he was another matter. Lip was the dependable one, the one moms loved and adored and good girls and boys dreamed of marrying. He was always calm, always polite, and always gave the diplomatic answers. He was their leader, and their best voice. Lip never did court the press, or the fame, never squandered anything or took much for granted. The man deserved his privacy and Bill was willing to do whatever it took in order protect him. It’s not like Lip couldn’t handle it on his own, but Lip took care of _everybody_ and someone needed to watch out for him.

There was an old map of the Great Smoky Mountains and Blue Ridge Parkway nailed up in Andy Haldane’s office at _Allison’s_ , the bar Hoosier worked at to have something to pass the time. Hoosier used the map as a dartboard, picking whatever place he landed on as the next destination for nosy reporters searching for a sighting. Plenty of people fucked off into the mountains, it wasn’t exactly unheard of someone disappearing into Appalachia to hide. Frankly, all the reporters should thank him for sending them out into some of North America’s most beautiful country. 

His current target was passed out on the bar, sleeping his last journey off. It was kind of wrong to send Rolling Stone’s Robert Leckie all the way to Charleston, but they did have a good indie music scene there and the boy looked like he could use some time with the Atlantic Ocean.

“What are we going to do about this?” Runner asked, gesturing to Leckie. Runner was an A&R man for the small label Coconut & Rhyme, which specialized in Beach Country. Thanks to acts like Chuckler Juergens and some connections from Lip, they’d just moved out of Ronnie Gibson’s basement into a legit office building. 

Hoosier’d be a liar if he didn’t admit Runner provided hours of entertainment. He appreciated a man with a sense of sarcasm and a filthy mouth.

Runner dropped a few bits of paper straw wrapper into Leckie’s nest of a hairstyle. “I mean, it wouldn’t be neighborly to just leave a guy all alone and defenseless, sleeping at a bar,” he said.

Hoosier shrugged. “I’m thinking Memphis might be a good detour for him. If he wants to chase ghosts, he’ll find plenty there.”

“Everyone should see Graceland once in their lives,” Runner agreed.

Hoosier solemnly nodded. “It is a national treasure,” he intoned.

“A veritable temple to kitsch,” Runner said. He smirked at Hoosier and leaned over Leckie’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he yelled into Leckie’s ear.

Leckie sat up so fast even Hoosier was impressed.

“What happened?” Leckie asked. “Were there piglets?”

“You dream about piglets?” Runner asked. He shook his head. “The things you learn about a man.”

“Fuck off,” Leckie said. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing at the bits of paper that fell out. “Real mature.”

“Leckie, you fell asleep in a bar,” Hoosier said. “You’re lucky you’re not dead and robbed.”

“And that you still have both your kidneys,” Runner said.

“Yeah, about that--” Hoosier trailed off.

“I swear you delight in sending me all over this godforsaken corner of the world,” Leckie muttered, his face in his hands.

“I wouldn’t say _delight_ is the proper word, Professor Leckie,” Hoosier said. “But hell, I’m a bartender, in a music bar, I hear things, I just pass ‘em on. Hell if I know if they’re true. You don’t have to follow all of my leads.”

Leckie shook his head. “Sorry, just overtired and ready to go home. You’ve passed on more info than anyone Hoosier, and hell, at least if I’m not getting the story I need, I am getting a lot of material.”

“Isn’t Hoosier such a saint?” Runner asked.

“Don’t you have an act you have to go stalk before Curb Records gets them first?” Hoosier asked him.

Runner smiled. “That’s how it is, okay, fine,” he said. He flipped Hoosier off, in the affectionate way only Runner Conley could manage, and hurried out of the bar.

Hoosier slapped down a whiskey in front of Leckie. “Take the shot, clear your mind, and start it all over tomorrow,” he ordered.

“You got a new lead?” Leckie murmured into his glass.

“Get on your blue suede shoes, you’re going to Memphis,” Hoosier said.

Lip actually _was_ going to be in Memphis, but he was helping Ron Speirs crawl through local flea markets to help with a found art project. He highly doubted Leckie would run into Lip, when the reporter would probably be stalking up and down Beale Street. Any asshole who claimed to have a thing for music history needed to go down that street at least once in their lives.

“Maybe I’ll find Elvis instead,” Leckie said.

************

Hoosier flipped through one of the trade magazines at the bar, smiling as Bob Leckie’s face appeared next to a story on the National Journalism Awards. It’d been a year-and-a-half since Leckie first stumbled into _Allison’s_ , and even though he still had yet to get that story on Lip, the writer came back every few months to check for any new leads.

“I didn’t take you for the reading kind,” Leckie said, sitting down at his usual barstool.

“I see you’ve decided to take your winter in Nashville again,” Hoosier said.

“It’s warmer here.”

“We get snow,” Hoosier said.

“Not the same,” Leckie argued. “Any new leads?” he asked when Hoosier set down his scotch.

Hoosier leaned against the bar and studied Leckie.

“What?” Leckie asked.

“Leckie, you’re a smart man, and apparently a decent writer if your National Journalism Award for a Human Interest Story indicates anything.”

“Thank you,” Leckie said.

“But let me give you some advice on Lipton Marshall.”

“No bullshit?” Leckie asked.

“A little bullshit,” Hoosier admitted, “but mostly truth. Look, Lip is a man who has a lot of friends in high places and the respect of most people in the industry. You’re not going to find the man unless he wants to be found. I suggest you let him come to you.”

Leckie laughed. “Like he’s got a file on me.”

“You’d be surprised,” Hoosier said, in all seriousness.

Leckie gulped. “What, there is a music mafia sort of thing going on?”

Hoosier shrugged. “Just some strong bonds and long memories. Lip knows of you, he knows how you treated this region with the utmost respect in your series of stories for the _New York Times_ , and he knows you don’t just exist as some slimy reporter for _Rolling Stone_. _When_ he wants to tell his story, I promise you’ll be at the top of his list.”

Leckie laughed. “How the hell do you know all this?”

“Shit son, I used to be in the band with him,” Hoosier said. “I thought you’d figure that one out by now, award-wining journalist that you are.”

He left Leckie at the other end of the bar, staring off in shocked silence.


	3. Taking Flame Over Burning Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical day at Coconut & Rhyme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title from Sara Bareilles’ _Uncharted_.
> 
> **A/N:** Unbeated.

**_Taking Flame Over Burning Out_ **

Being a music label worker in Nashville was like being a lawyer or banker in New York City, there were at least three buildings full of them on each side of the street. All it took was one act to make a label’s future, and ever since Taylor Swift somehow managed to outsell everyone even vaguely associated with the genre, the big labels were taking chances on the indie label acts.

Not that Runner Conley or Ronnie Gibson could convince their star act to sign with a major label. Well, second star act. Merriell Shelton was a gold mine, but he made record executives cry. Lewis “Chuckler” Juergens was a completely different matter.

“You ain’t getting rid of me that easy,” Lew said through a mouth full of M&Ms.

“You do get that you're turning down the chance to be a millionaire,” Ronnie Gibson said, holding his head in his hands.

“I’m not giving up my freedom for a higher tax bracket,” Lew said.

“Chuckler,” Runner said, “you have a chance to be big, Kenny Chesney or Brad Paisley big.”

“I don’t look good in hats,” Lew answered.

“What about Keith Urban?” Gibson tried.

“He’s Australian, default cool to the fans.”

“Dierks Bentley?” Runner asked.

“Has that dog in all his videos. People love dogs.”

“Rascal Flatts?” Gibson said.

Lew shrugged. “On the soundtrack to _Cars_ so the kids and their parents have a built-in fan base.”

“We could marry you off to some Carrie Underwood wannabe and make you the next Tim McGraw,” Gibson threatened.

“Only if I get to do at least one crossover song with an of-the-moment rapper,” Lew said. He started humming Nelly and Tim McGraw’s _Over & Over_.

Runner laid his head down on his desk. “God, I don’t even know why we try with you anymore. What’s the point of signing even to an indie label if you don’t want to develop?”

“I want to develop,” Lew said, suddenly serious. “I want to be a better musician, to actually learn the art of writing a good song, not just Beach Country Let’s-Get-Drunk Anthems. I’d just rather do it here than signing my life away to the Man.”

“Alright, fine,” Gibson said. He waved Lew away. “We’ll stop bugging you for this month, just get your ass out of here and stop distracting us.”

“Why you got something better to do than entertain me?” Lew asked.

Runner pointedly shook one of the many cardboard boxes currently piled up around their new office. He almost missed Gibson’s basement, their former headquarters, if only because Mama Gibson usually brought down some ginger snaps and iced tea by this time of day.

“I can help,” Lew said. He’d moved on to the Red Vines now, continuing his mission of eating through the candy basket Shifty Powers sent them. 

Runner knew this was Shifty’s payback for the last time he took Q-Tip out for a night of tequila shots. 

“You break those money-making fingers and I will shoot you,” Gibson said.

“Look at the little man all full of the big attitude since he moved into a new office,” Lew said. “I used to be the head of security for 3B, I know how to get my job done without major injury.”

Gibson shook his head. “I still don’t know how you ever got that job.”

Lew sat back in his chair and held his hands out. “I’m good at what I do,” he said, gesturing with a piece of red licorice. “Besides, by the time I joined up, their spotlight dimmed and the crowds were smaller.”

“And yet Lip and Hoosier still found the time to turn you into their little musical project,” Gibson said.

“Well, we all needed something to occupy the time between Nix puking his guts out and Joe getting into bar fights,” Lew said. “Somehow teaching me to play the guitar just seemed the safer hobby.”

“Imagine that,” Gibson muttered. He looked at all the boxes and grimaced. “Hoosier’s bartending at _Allison’s_ today, right?”

“Yeah,” Runner answered.

Lew laughed and threw down his Red Vines. “Let’s get the hell out of here then.”

************

“You know why he stays, don’t you?” Hoosier asked. He put down a bowl of pistachios in front of Runner.

“Who?” Runner asked, prying the shells open.

“Chuckler, Lew, your money-making musical cow.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Runner asked.

Hoosier sighed, his head dropping down. “You’re so fucking clueless sometimes, Conley,” he muttered. “He stays because of _you_ , he doesn’t want to leave you behind.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s certainly not staying for Gibson’s wonderful business practices.”

“He always manages to get people paid on time, that says more about him than half the major labels here. And he lets the talent develop at their own pace,” Runner defended his boss.

Hoosier tapped his fingers on the bar. “Lena’s really pushing Chuckler to move.”

“ _We’re_ pushing Chuckler to move. We figured between both his manager and his label saying something, he’d sign any of the three deals waiting for him, but he just won’t budge. And they’re decent deals, Hoosier, none of that 360 bullshit they try to give new artists.”

Hoosier smirked. “If anyone’s dumb enough to try and pass a 360 deal to one of Lena Basilone’s clients, they deserve to get what’s coming.”

“Word,” Runner said, stacking up his pistachio shells.

360 deals were becoming the norm for new artists. The deals had good and bad aspects, but since they potentially brought more money to the label, every single one tried to pass them out. The deals basically made the labels own the artist for life, getting part of the artist’s lifetime income, music sales, and merchandise sales. All record deals were essentially loans with really high interest the artist had to pay back, with labels covering everything from the cost of studio time and tours to promotion and production, but 360 deals could mean a serious lack of profit for the talent. Especially when you talked about indie musicians and rock acts, who made most of their money off the merch they produced and sold by themselves. Labels would find any way to stay profitable and there was a reason why an artist could be a multi-platinum seller and still bankrupt. The 360 deal could look good on paper, but it always had a fuckton of loopholes that could stifle creativity and production. Much like how the Nashville music machine worked, 360 deals led themselves to sticking to what brought in the most money as opposed to anything with innovation.

Gibson was barely breaking even with Coconut & Rhyme, but that’s more than a lot of people could say. 

Hoosier gestured to the stage where Eddie was tuning his banjo for the afternoon set. 

“I guess if a quiet musician’s life is good enough for Eddie Jones, it’ll be good enough for Lew Juergens,” he said.

“I wouldn’t exactly call Eddie’s life quiet,” Runner said. “A visit to him is turning into some sort of new musician’s pilgrimage or some shit.”

Hoosier smirked. “The guru on the stage, huh? We should market that.”

“Andy would kill you. Slowly,” Runner said.

“I’d probably still make a killing before I died,” Hoosier snarked. He pushed back from the bar. “As much as I enjoy staring at your ugly mug, got to get ready for the after-work rush.”

Runner laughed and flicked a pistachio shell at his back. 

He turned around on his barstool to watch the stage. Runner’s job involved nights spent in hole-in-the-wall clubs and music spots, days at muddy state fairs and music festivals, and more than a few hours spent scouring up-and-coming acts' YouTube, Facebook, and Twitter pages trying to find their next artist. He’d seen every type of musician come from every genre, even if Coconut & Rhyme was focused on Beach Country music, they had acts spanning all styles.

It was a rare treat to see a musician liked Eddie Jones. He didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he really wasn’t there to sing anyway. Eddie let his instruments sing for him, and putting anything with strings on it into his hands turned out amazing. He’d even seen the guy rock a mandolin more than once. Andy loved the Spanish Guitar so Eddie played that a lot, breaking out the lap harp for Hoosier and the cello for Gibson.

Eddie was one of those performers you couldn’t help but watch. He drew people to him, when he got on that stage and under those lights. Off the stage, in his beat up jeans and raggedy white t-shirts, you wouldn’t spare him a second glance. Put him under a spotlight with a guitar in his hand and no one ever turned away. It was rare to find that in a musician, true, honest-to-god, stage presence. It was the thing that kept people flocking to see Eddie at _Allison’s_ over the years. It was the same quality that Runner saw in Chuckler the first time he performed on some country fair stage in the middle of Nebraska.

The afternoon show wouldn’t start for another half hour, so the only thing to see was the sound check. Ray Person, some kid out of Missouri, ran the soundboard and all the technical crap. The kid had a mouth on him but was a genius with machines. He always ran his mouth while Eddie went through his sound check, smiling at Ray’s rants while absently plucking out a tune. The house lights were up, so you could see everyone wandering off and on the stage, securing cords, checking speakers, mics, and amps, doing all the set-up work people rarely realized went into a show.

“I don’t know what it is, but I’ve always liked the sound check best,” Andy Haldane said as he sat down next to Runner.

Haldane, like so many of them, came from elsewhere. He went to the University of Tennessee for his Master’s and met Eddie in Knoxville, before following him to Memphis and finally settling in Nashville. Runner always felt the both of them were made for Memphis but Eddie claimed they just liked being contrary. 

Runner always liked Andy, happy to meet someone else from the Northeast who shared his love for Drake’s Devil Dogs and Utz Crab Chips. Andy was full of quiet and calm confidence. He could do frat boy bravado one minute and the next be full of shy smiles and back home stories. He knew nothing about music really, just knew what he liked. He couldn’t play worth a damn, even though Eddie’d been trying for at least five years to teach him the main chords used in _Cross Road Blues_. Andy still sucked at it, but at least he stopped breaking the guitar strings.

“I think it’s because Eddie usually lets you live out your rock star dreams during sound check,” Runner said.

“Not exactly,” Haldane said. “I think it’s more, seeing what’s behind the curtain and all? I was always that kid that wanted to know how the magic tricks worked, couldn’t just let the illusion stay. It drove my father insane, my need to know _things_ , but my mother loved it. She could drop me off at the library and I’d have as much fun there as a toy store.”

“But you played football.”

“And I loved mapping the game plays.”

“Still you ended up here.”

“Whoever knew my minor in Business Management would get me so far,” Andy said. “Is Lew going to play?” he asked, gesturing to the stage.

“He’s already in the stock room testing out fiddles. When did you decide to make the afternoon shows a Bluegrass special?”

“Last week when Eddie said that if he played one more honkytonk afternoon set he was leaving for good.”

Runner smirked and raised his glass. “Bluegrass it is.”

************

A storm was rolling through the area that night, and while Runner probably should’ve been worrying about flooding, or the roof being torn off his home, or something else house insurance related, all he could worry about was the man sleeping next to him.

“Christ, Will, you think any louder you’ll wake the neighbors up,” Lew muttered into his pillow. He only used Runner’s real name when he was pissed off or being cautious.

“Their dog keeps them up half the night anyway,” Runner said. 

“Not the point,” Lew said. He rolled over and looked up at Runner. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you staying with the label because of me?” he asked.

“You always excel at the pillow talk,” Lew said. He stretched his arms out, long limbs reaching just past the edges of the bed. “Is that what’s kept you up all night?”

“It was something Hoosier said.”

“Oh, here we go,” Lew muttered. “Look, did it ever occur to you, Gibson, Lena, and Hoosier that I _like_ where I am. Why is it that no one pushes Eddie into signing a major deal, even though he gets an offer every other night.”

“Because everyone knows Eddie just wants to play for a living, he doesn’t want to be a star.”

“And I can’t have that same wish?” Lew asked.

Runner tangled his fingers in Lew’s curly hair. “Not when we all think you’re compromising yourself.”

“Will, country music barely excepts open liberals among its talent, do you really think they’re going to take an openly gay one?”

“Chely Wright, she’s out,” Runner said.

“And?” Lew asked. “Do we really need to have the Country Music Privilege Lessons 101 again?”

“No,” Runner said. “You just hope things change over time.”

“The fact that Darius Rucker is in the Top Ten is already a major advancement.”

“And he’s got the power of previous success behind him, I know,” Runner said. 

“I like being able to just play, where no one bothers me about my personal life or asks me what I’m wearing. Where I can still get into a fight and my label boss won’t reprimand me.”

“Since you usually get into bar fights by getting Gibson out of them.”

“Alternative and Indie Country is on the brink but it’s going to have to come out of the musicians themselves, because we are going against the tried and true machine. I don’t want to write and sings songs about losing my dog, my wife leaving me and my pick-up getting crushed under a tree. I don’t want to perform bubble gum country. There’s a time and a place for it, but I’d rather write songs about getting away, discovering who I am, and stumbling across the love of my life at a tractor pull in Nebraska.”

“You didn’t have to actually stumble over me.”

“You’re short and I love it. Lena calls you pocket-sized.”

“Lena’s the only one allowed to do that.”

“Come here,” Lew said, pulling him down.

Runner may have squawked but he’d never admit it.

“I stay with your label because Gibson’s a decent person who pours his blood and soul into his work, because as a side business, we have an all-access pass to anything coming out of Screaming Eagle Publishing and Currahee Studios, and because as long as I stay, you’ll stay.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Runner asked.

“You have to know Curb and Mercury both have headhunters out for you,” Lew said.

“Did you drink Old Elmo’s Gin again? I told you that shit is moonshine.”

Lew propped himself up on his elbow. “You really don’t know that half the labels in this town are gunning after you for their next A&R man?”

“Uh, no, nobody’s said anything to me.”

“You discovered Merriell Shelton, right now all the music executives think you’re a god. They’re just waiting to see who you find next.”

“You sound bitter,” Runner said. “Are you bitter that I’ve been spending most of my time pre-move working with Renée? Lew, she’s here on a work visa, we need results fast.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“And so is Vera but you’ve never been bothered by her.”

“She’s a college professor and married. Neither one of those things is a turn-on for you,” Lew scoffed.

“They could be.”

“Old books cause your asthma to act up.”

“Oh, who’s good at the pillow talk again?”

Lew dropped his head down onto Runner’s shoulder. “I’m happy where I am. Aren’t you?”

“I still think the world should hear your music.”

“There’s this magical thing called the internet. You might’ve heard of it. Al Gore invented it or something.”

“I vaguely recall seeing something about that five years ago. Still around, huh?”

“Somehow managed to survive. It connects things. Globally.”

“Wow,” Runner intoned. He pressed a kiss into Lew’s hair. “So neither one of us is going anywhere.”

“Well, me might get flooded out of the house again and sent down the Mississippi, but for right now I’m good.”

“I’ll call off Gibson and Lena,” Runner said.

“And Papa Olaf?” Lew asked.

Runner flinched. He honestly thought he’d got away with that one. “And Papa Olaf,” he agreed, “though he’s still hoping you’ll reconsider hockey as a career change.”

Lew laughed quietly for a moment but it faded off into a light snore. It was one of the first things Runner found charming about him, the ability for Lew Juergens to fall asleep anywhere once he decided all was right with his world. Quite an advantage for a traveling musician that everyone envied.

Runner stared at the ceiling, continuing to twirl his fingers through Lew’s hair. He had to sort his next day, find a new tour manage for Merriell, and get Renée in the recording studio all before night’s end. 

Just another day for the workers of Coconut & Rhyme.


	4. You Followed As I Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Wilbur Met Lewis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title from The Empires’ _Valmont_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated.

**_You Followed As I Fell_ **

Runner pulled his fedora down, trying and desperately failing to blend into the Nebraska County Fair crowd. Gibson was dead when he got back to Nashville. Runner didn’t have a problem going to state fairs in the middle of nowhere to find an act, but really, the biggest attraction here was the super squash and the deep fried Mars Bars. 

“Hey, buddy, where’s the stage?” Runner asked at one of the farmer’s stalls.

“Two fields over, past the petting zoo,” she said. 

“Thanks,” Runner said. He pulled his pea coat tighter around himself. It was surprisingly cold day for a county fair. It wasn’t quite Buffalo-cold, but he really wish he’d packed more than jeans, short-sleeved shirts, and his old thinning jacket.

Ronnie Gibson heard from a friend of a cousin that some up and coming musical sensation was performing this afternoon. The guy came out of the ridiculous pool of talented musicians from Chicago, but was trying to form his own path. Apparently the kid just had something special about him and rumors of bidding wars among the indie labels were already starting.

If the guy was as good as everyone claimed, Runner had no idea why Gibson sent him to try to sign him. Coconut & Rhyme, Gibson’s label that he ran as a part-time job, only had five acts and none of them were headliners. Hell, Runner still spent half his work-week with Currahee Studios, producing music and calming down the temperamental talent. Runner knew he’d worked with some amazing musicians and helped produced a few critically-acclaimed albums but he didn’t think he was good enough to sign anyone who was being heavily pursued. Coconut & Rhyme just didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of perks to offer.

The sound of reverberation clanged through the air, signaling the start of a show. Runner hurried past the cotton candy stands and just avoided a collision with the petting zoo gate. There was a sizeable crowd gathered around a rickety platform stage. If anyone started moshing it would end in disaster.

Not that Runner ever saw a country music mosh, but hell, they were in the middle of nowhere Nebraska. Kids had to do something for fun. 

“Is this the Lew Juergens set?” he asked one of the girls passing by.

“Duh,” she said, in the way only the young teenager could manage. 

“Thanks,” Runner said. 

He elbowed his way to a side stage view. He never liked to observe from the middle of the crowd. He liked to take it all in from stage left or right, see a musician’s tells, know when the talent was messing up or going with some improv. If the crowd and space allowed it, Runner would pace around, trying to watch the act from all angles. He liked watching the talent and the crowd, performance and stage presence mattered, sometimes even more so if you were trying to cover up a mediocre musician. Still, if you get a crowd under your thumb just by singing and playing, hell, that saved at least a grand from the stage set budget. 

The guy on stage, Lew Juergens, was tall and toned. Even from here, Runner could see an irreverent look on his face. He smiled like he didn’t know any other expression. His wardrobe certainly left something to be desired; ratty jeans and a _M*A*S*H_ t-shirt. That’s why labels had image consultants. The stage clothes should convey the genre to the crowd. It was one of those bullshit things that everyone just abided by anyway. Juergens was supposed to be a country musician, but his clothes and look so far screamed modern pop-punk rock. Runner wasn’t excepting cowboy boots and a 10-gallon hat, this wasn’t Oklahoma, but there should at least be some sort of button up shirt or a ridiculously large belt buckle in the ensemble. Or hell, even a baseball cap or a leather jacket for bare basics. 

There was an air of tense excitement in the audience, quite a few already calling for Juergens to start his set. They got wide smiles and a shook head in response. The crowd was getting larger with each passing minute. And impressive turn out, especially considering where they were. 

Runner settled back against one of the fence posts, pulled his hat down a little further, and waited for the show to begin. This was either going to be really good or a complete shit-show. Either way, he was going to be entertained.

************

An hour later, Runner was hurrying to follow Lew Juergens and his collective entourage through the county fairgrounds. 

He owed Gibson for this discovery. Juergens wasn’t just an able musician, the kid had stage presence, pure and simple. A charisma you latched onto, that translated well from stage to audience and back. He fed off his crowd, never looking tired or bored, even if he had to be a little cold by now as the breeze picked up. He played straight through a forty-five minute set, only stopping once for a sip of water and a quick re-tuning. 

Trying to catch him was proving quite the task for Runner. He didn’t have the right shoes on for marching through a muddy field and the tall fucker was fast. Swooping from food stand to stand like a starving magpie. 

Runner was bending down to pull his foot out of the mud _again_ when someone stumbled over him. He went down hard, taking a knee to his midsection.

“Geez, buddy, I’m sorry,” a male voice said.

Runner was too out of breath to give the response he wanted to. It probably wasn’t good manners to curse out random strangers.

“I didn’t see you there,” the guy said again.

Then again, Runner could always use the New York excuse. Everyone expected them to be assholes any way.

“Listen,” Runner gasped out.

“Let me help you up.”

Runner took the outstretched hand because between the mud and his bruised ribs, he didn’t think he could get up otherwise.

“You okay?” the guy asked.

Runner looked up at the culprit/rescuer. 

“Fucking typical,” he muttered as he stared at Lew Juergens wide smile. This contract pitch was going to go down as his worst in history.

Juergens laughed. “Not the best response I’ve ever received,” he said. “I really am sorry, man.”

Runner waved him off. “Nothing’s broken except my pride.”

Juergens laughed again. He shooed Runner over to one of the picnic tables, dusting dirt and grass off his back.

“Watch the hands,” Runner said, “no one grabs my ass before the first date.”

Juergens snorted. “You clearly aren’t from here or else are fearless. Most guys wouldn’t say that to a male stranger.”

Runner shrugged and pulled out his business card, handing it to Juergens. “You’re not exactly a stranger to me.”

He studied the card. “Runner Conley, Coconut & Rhyme,” he read out loud. “You don’t sound like you’re from Nashville.”

Runner tried in vain to get the mud off his pants. “I followed Manifest Destiny and went West,” he said. “I’m from Buffalo.”

Juergens whistled. “Long way from home.” He sat down across from Runner. “So, give it to me.”

“Excuse me?” Runner asked.

Juergens still had the innocence to blush. He dropped his head down a little and muttered his next statement. “Your spiel,” he said. “The one you record execs always spin out.”

Runner tried really hard not to smirk. He’d already lost this chance to really sell the label, so he might as well have fun with the kid in front of him. 

“I’m A&R for an indie label,” he explained. “A tiny one. We’re looking for a star act and I think you have the potential.”

“Potential?” Juergens asked. “Most of you guys say I’m the next best thing.”

“You’re not good enough yet for the ass-kissing,” Runner admitted. “You can pull a crowd in, but I wonder if you can do the same in a city where new acts flood the streets and the stages every night.”

“I am from Chicago,” he said.

“And you’re playing in Nebraska.”

“Because I want to,” Juergens said. “This is the best I could do for a cheap tour.”

“You need a better tour manager and a better promoter,” Runner said. “No one uses MySpace anymore.”

“Musicians do.”

“You have much better social networking options. And where’s your merch table? You have to at least have someone selling your EP out of their trunk.”

“They’re in the parking lot,” Juergens said, cautiously. “So you’re not going to weave me a tale about how all my dreams are going to come true if I sign with you.”

“I don’t know you, Juergens, I have no idea what your dreams are. If you’ve been playing shows for even a year you know it’s hard work. And that it’s a constant job. I’m not going to sit here and feed you bullshit and waste my time or yours. Look, if you’re willing to come down to Nashville and work with some of the alternative country writers, musicians, and producers, we’re interested in giving you a chance. We’ll give you the same preliminary EP deal we give everyone, but you’ve got to come to us first and play at least one show in Nashville. We can’t invest in anyone who can’t handle the crowds and the attitude that come with the city. I’m sure you can get other indie deals closer to home, but they’re probably not going to be in the genre you want.”

“They’re trying to get me to go in a modern folk direction,” he admitted.

“And how do you feel about that?” Runner asked.

Juergens shook his head. “It’s not what I want to play.”

“Come down to Nashville and we’ll see about getting you a development deal.”

“Wow, I’m flattered. You’re not even trying with an actual recording contract.”

“My label’s got to be memorable somehow and I don’t make business deals over picnic tables.”

Juergens toyed with the business card. “Will there be accommodations of some sort?”

“As long as you don’t mind sleeping on a guest bed in a stranger’s house, we’ll cover room and board,” Runner said.

Juergens nodded. “I’ve had worse offers.”

Runner stood up. “I’ve got to catch a night show in Omaha, but I’ll see you soon, Juergens.”

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Conley.”

Runner smirked. “I know how good I am.” He tipped his hat to Juergens and walked away.

“Chuckler,” Juergens yelled after him.

Runner turned around. “Chuckler?”

“That’s the name I go by,” he said, “Chuckler.”

Runner nodded. “Then I’ll see you very soon, Chuckler.”


	5. In the Lights You Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Hoosier background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title from My Chemical Romance’s _The Kids From Yesterday_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated. Tiny background story ficlet. For who brought out the Hoosier love in full force and who gave me the idea of Hoosier/Skinny. That bit of brilliance is all hers.

**_In the Lights You Make_ **

_Get your ass down here_.

That was the note attached to the plane ticket resting on his kitchen counter. Carwood Lipton’s perfect cursive was ordering him, as usual, and Bill “Hoosier” Smith never bothered to ignore Lip’s orders. They’d saved his life on more than one occasion.

Hoosier looked around his apartment, one of the stylish abodes among the homes of the new rock gods littering the Sunset Strip and smiled. He never did like to hang around ass-kissers and health freaks. He only came out to Los Angeles because he was trying to be a supportive boyfriend. Then Sara left him for some Emo Punk “musician” who thought screaming could cover up a distinct lack of talent.

Hoosier was only a little bitter about it, especially since Sara was far too good for _him_ , not to mention some asshole who thought his eyeliner was as important as his guitar strap.

He picked up his phone and dialed Lip’s number.

“I got your suggestion,” he said by way of greeting.

“Skinny says you need a new security system,” Lip replied, “and that he’d install it himself if you moved your ass to Nashville.”

“Maybe I like it here,” Hoosier said.

“Bill, you’re turning into some former pop star version of Miss Havisham. Soon you’re going to adopt some poor kid and turn them into a heartless bastard much like yourself.”

“You talking to Webster again?” he asked. Lip only quoted _Great Expectations_ after talking to Webster.

“He’s one of the best publicists out there.”

“Sure, if you’re looking for awkward statements and _Weekly World News_ headlines,” Hoosier said.

Lip’s disappointed sigh still held all its impact over the line. “What’s keeping you in L.A.?” he asked.

“Isn’t it where all washed up pop stars go to end their days?”

“You told me that was reality shows.”

“And how am I supposed to get on one if I’m not in the City that Hollywood Built?”

“Bill, get your ass down here. You don’t even have a real bed in that apartment. And I know your fridge is nothing but condiments.”

“You got a home for me?”

“Skinny found you a place.”

It really didn’t even take some serious thinking. 

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said.

************

Skinny Sisk was the son of 3B’s first security guard. He got the name Skinny because until he hit 17, Skinny was one of those chubby kids just waiting for puberty to finish its hell. He used to wrestle, got a scholarship to college for it even, but then he dropped 30 pounds over a summer and had to learn how to use tone over bulk. Skinny followed his father into the business and became the guard assigned to trail after Hoosier and Lip. 

They’d faded from the spotlight since, but Skinny still spent most of his days cleaning up after Lip and Hoosier, making sure they didn’t electrocute themselves in the bathroom or experience death by spork.

He was better than any personal assistant or manager at calming Lip and Hoosier down, knew what they needed before they did, and managed to make sure they paid all their bills on time. Winters was the genius who worked with Sobel to invest their money so well they never had to work again, but Skinny was the one who made sure there was something to occupy their minds. 

Skinny quietly controlled everything, and you didn’t realize how much until you were in the Nashville airport, trying to figure out where the hell you were going.

“Like I’d expect you to find your own way,” Skinny said, already holding Hoosier’s bags.

“Ain’t my fault you’ve made me useless,” Hoosier said. 

Skinny dropped one of the bags on Hoosier’s foot. “Time for you to start taking back control,” he said.

Hoosier slapped Skinny on the back of the head. 

“If you break me you’ll never figure out where your home is,” Skinny said.

“Where are you stashing me this time? Some crack house chic palace?” Hoosier asked.

“I thought we both agreed your pretty face is not meant to survive the mean streets,” Skinny said.

Hoosier shrugged. “I doubt anyone’s looking anymore.”

Skinny threw an arm around his shoulder. “Just because Sara and Patrick left you, doesn’t make you damaged goods. You’re more an acquired taste.”

“Not making me feel any better, Skinny,” Hoosier said. 

He followed Skinny out to his car and tried not to snort.

“Don’t mock the four wheel drive,” Skinny said.

“It’s a Subaru. Badass security guards are supposed to drive Hummers.”

“Not with their tendency to flip over,” Skinny said.

“So, where we going?” Hoosier asked, settling down for the ride.

“Wait until you hear banjos,” Skinny said.

************

“Holy shit,” Hoosier said when they pulled up in the driveway of his new house.

They were at least forty-five minutes outside of downtown Nashville, surrounded by wide expanses of open land and horse farms. 

“Holy hell, it’s almost like home. A bit colder than I was expecting, but shit, Skinny,” Hoosier said. 

Skinny shrugged. “You won’t got back to Indiana, so we’ll bring you some country here, you’ve been in the city too long.”

“It’s a big ass house,” Hoosier said.

“You’ve got a staff and a roommate.”

“Lip?”

Skinny shook his head and took out a set of keys. “You really think I’m going to trust you to live on this property and not get lost.”

“Didn’t know you cared,” Hoosier said.

“I know who signs my paychecks,” Skinny answered, “and with you dead, I am out of half a job.”

“Most of it. Shifty’s got Lip under control.”

Skinny opened the door to the house, the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin spice spilled out.

It was tastefully decorated, clearly a professional job since Skinny’s decorating taste were about the same as Hoosier’s. Still, it felt warm, cozy, and lived in. Like a real home. Hoosier just couldn’t get over the fact it smelled like Thanksgiving.

“Did you turn this place into a friggin’ Yankee Candle?” he asked. 

“I needed to get rid of the new paint smell,” Skinny said.

“I like that smell,” Hoosier said. 

“Only because it reminds you of your pre-teen huffing years.”

“What else was I supposed to do with a nose like mine?”

“Go into the wine business,” Skinny said.

“You got a winery around here for me to work at?” Hoosier asked.

“Nope,” Skinny said, dropping the bags by the stairs, “but I do have a job for you once you’re settled.”

“Keeping me occupied?” Hoosier asked.

“Someone needs to pay the property taxes,” Skinny said.

***********

Skinny’s job was a bartending position at a place called _Allison’s_ , it was a music joint with the perfect blues and bluegrass atmosphere. The musician in Hoosier loved the place on sight; it was lived in, it had history, it was real. 

And he didn’t hate the job. Hoosier always took well to bartending, picked it up as an occupation in all the places he lived. He liked leading tourists astray and having the power as the man who poured the drinks. Hell, if he got a free show out of it each night, it was worth the beer stains on his favorite jeans and his dinner of cheap bar pretzels.

Most of all, Hoosier liked going to work in nothing but jeans, a white undershirt, and a button down. It made him feel like he was back in Indiana, elbows deep into an engine block, or working his grandpa’s fields. He was always more comfortable in a pair of Levi’s than some suit pants that cost more than a cell phone.

“You’re adjusting well,” Eddie Jones, bar co-owner and resident musician said. 

“I’ve bartended a time or two before,” Hoosier said

“No, I meant to life outside of fame. Most guys who make it big consider themselves too good for an honest day’s work, even if they need the money.”

It was only Hoosier’s boy band charm school training that kept him from dropping the glass in his hands.

“You don’t look like a 3B fan,” he said.

“I ain’t,” Eddie said, “but my sister Anna was, is still.”

“Does everyone know?”

Eddie smirked. “Andy couldn’t place you until he remembered Lip’s old job. Mike Wynn has a few teenage girls who obsessed over you about ten years ago.”

“Ouch,” he said, putting the glass down before it shattered. 

“You look good for your age.”

“I’m only thirty, Hillbilly,” he said. 

“Just a baby,” Eddie said.

He rested his arms on the bar and gave Hoosier a long look.

“Why’d you come here?” he asked,

“Lip told me to,” Hoosier answered.

“Right, but why did you really come?”

“Needed to get the fuck out of Hollywood,” Hoosier said.

“That’s all?” Eddie asked.

“What are you trying to get at?” Hoosier asked, leaning back against the shelf.

“I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, and what I know of you, is mostly hearsay, but I recognize the wanderer in you.”

“Do you then?”

“You like it here, though, it could almost be home. But you got to open yourself up to it.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means pull your $2,000 haircut out of your ass and look at the people around you,” Eddie said.

He stood up from the bar with a nod of his head and made his way to the stage.

Hoosier let himself be soothed by the sound check process while he tried to gain back the face Eddie had just ripped off with a few pointed words. Sound check always made him calm. Something about instruments being tuned and mics being set up that let the noise in his head stop.

Eddie wasn’t wrong, but hell, Hoosier and his delusions had always been best friends

************

The long drive from _Allison’s_ to home always provided the perfect opportunity to think. Once you left the Nashville hub, it was nothing but trees, road, and houses set far apart for miles. Hoosier appreciated the peace and quiet, even if you never could properly drift off and day dream. The second you did, it would be a deer meeting the hood.

Skinny Sisk was a life-long friend. He and Hoosier were the closest in age, so when Daddy Wayne decided it was time to assign his boy to a real job, Hoosier was the logical choice. Lip also came along with the deal, but honestly, Lip had enough sense to stay out of the shit that usually required a body guard. 

Skinny was a friend first though, always was, and never thought of in that detached way that could come with hired thugs. Skinny was the one who stood beside Hoosier in a cramped rest stop bathroom, laughing and helping, when Hoosier decided to dye his hair fire-engine-red in a fit of pop-star rebellion. (Skinny laughed even harder when it set off a trend through all of bubble-gum pop land.) Skinny was the one who sat beside the tattoo artist’s chair and talked Hoosier down from screaming his head off when he decided getting a tattoo on his chest bone was the best idea in the world. Skinny was the first one to congratulate them when they went Diamond, getting a hug in even before Winters could manage it.

Skinny was there for the shitty times too. He was the one who answered the call about Hoosier’s mom. He was the one who had to convey to them each time a fan got hurt at a show. He was the first person Hoosier called, after Lip, when a relationship imploded on itself. And he was the one to tell Hoosier it was because he was a mean son-of-a-bitch who no one knew how to handle. 

Skinny never sugar coated the hard truths, and Hoosier loved him for that. 

And Skinny saw him as Bill, not a former famous face, not a meal ticket, not a stepping-stone for a career move. 

Hoosier wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew what Eddie was getting at tonight. Hell, Hoosier had pondered it enough on his own. Skinny was the only who could handle and tolerate Hoosier, even when he was beyond his worst. And Hoosier had said more than a handful of asshole things to Skinny over the years, but Skinny was never, ever afraid to give as good as he got. 

He knew Skinny wasn’t uninterested. There had been a few drunken fumblings in the earlier years, when Hoosier was just starting to figure out he wanted and Skinny knew damn well. They’d just never talked long enough to decide to go for it all. And then came the success, the downfall, and the distance. 

It was a hell of a risk. It was a good thing Hoosier always liked the odds in Vegas. 

Five years ago, after Patrick ripped his heart out, taking his dog along with his sanity and his pride, Hoosier got wasted. So wasted he wound up in the hospital with a nice stomach pump and a stay in the psych ward as a suicide risk. It was a bit of overkill, but Hoosier definitely needed the time to dry out and get his head back on straight.

All his band members came to see him; Lip with his concerned eyes, Toye with his dark smile, Luz with his jokes, and Nixon with a list of his favorite rehab facilities. Winters was the only one who believed Hoosier when he told him it was honestly an accident, and thank god for that, since Winters was his emergency contact. It was Skinny who came last, and punched Hoosier in the jaw.

It wasn’t so much a wake-up call as the sort of hard love tap he desperately needed. It was the last time Skinny left Hoosier to his own devices for more than a month at a time.

Skinny was damn good at his job, he was the one who trained Chuckler Juergens, yet another guard who was competent without being obvious muscle. But while Chuckler and all the other security details left them alone when the band broke-up, Skinny somehow worked his way into their lives with a paid job as being the one who cleaned up all their shit.

And it never occurred to Hoosier to ask why. He could get Lip, it was payback for the unflinching faith Lip had in everyone. But Hoosier? He didn’t have a heart of gold and he sure as hell wasn’t planning on doing anything more constructive with his life.

Hoosier parked his car in the garage and hurried up the stairs to Skinny’s office.

“Did you set something on fire?” Skinny asked when Hoosier pushed the door open.

“Why the hell are you still here?” Hoosier asked.

“I don’t have any meetings until tomorrow,” Skinny said.

“No,” Hoosier said, as he closed the door, “why are you still _here_?” he asked. He stepped into Skinny’s space, knowing it could be dangerous. Skinny was never shy about taking violent action.

Skinny let out an exasperated breath, making the hairs on Hoosier’s neck stand up. It smelled like mint, which meant Skinny was trying to quit smoking again.

“You’re not stupid, Hoosier,” he said, “don’t act like an idiot.”

“How long?” Hoosier asked.

“Why the hell do you think I hated Patrick so fucking much?” Skinny asked.

“That was years ago. And you and Liebgott have been done for two years.”

“Yeah, well, he fell for some messed up Cajun kid and Sara had just left you. It wasn’t the best time to start anything. At this point in my life, I suffer no delusions as to where I’m going to end up. It’ll be by your side in some capacity.”

“How selfless of you.”

“You certainly have a talent for not taking care of yourself,” Skinny said.

“So, this is where it’s at,” Hoosier said.

“After you’ve had a night to think about it and when you’re not smelling like bourbon, sure,” Skinny said.

“You going to tuck me in?” Hoosier asked.

“You’ll just have to survive the night on your own.”

“I’m so lonesome, I could cry,” Hoosier said.

“Don’t take Hank’s name in vain,” Skinny said.

************

Hoosier never liked being on the stage. His anxiety grew with the size of the crowds, and by the time they were playing stadiums, Hoosier was downing booze like water just to get his ass in front of the audience. 

Skinny spent the whole night after a show by Hoosier’s side, making sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit. Everyone else on the crew had to make sure Nix didn’t take a flying leap off the hotel balcony. It was only ever Skinny there to shake Hoosier awake, drag his ass to the bathroom, and make him presentable by morning light.

Hoosier grew used to that strong hand waking his ass up. It usually came with a hard smack to his face and a muttered comment about _not getting paid enough for this bullshit_. That morning is was a kick to his shin and a _get your ass out of bed_.

“What happened to giving me the night?” Hoosier asked, speaking into his pillow.

“I changed my mind,” Skinny said.

Hoosier held his blankets open. “Get the hell in here, I ain’t getting out of this bed.”

“We’re doing this backwards,” Skinny said.

“Since when the fuck do you care about proper behavior?” Hoosier asked.

“Valid point,” Skinny said. He slipped into the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. “You’re an asshole, you know.”

“I know, darlin’, but you love it about me.”

“You could at least take your face out of the pillow to say that.”

“Fine,” Hoosier said, flipping over with a fuss, “happy?”

“Thrilled. Tap dancing with joy,” Skinny said.

Hoosier blinked up at him. “You always knew this was going to happen. Just waiting for me to catch up.”

“I did set up your dream house.”

“No pink Cadillac in the garage.”

“The dealership was all out,” Skinny said.

“It ain’t my home without you,” Hoosier said, “so you’ve got to stay.”

“We’re keeping separate bedrooms,” Skinny said.

“I’m insulted.”

“You snore like a freight train and when you’re drunk it’s even worse.”

Hoosier shrugged. “I didn’t want to make closet space for you anyway.” He reached a hand up and tugged Skinny down to the mattress.

“This is familiar,” Skinny said.

“Been a few years,” Hoosier said, “missed it. The other boys and girls just didn’t have your bony elbows.”

“At least my collar bones don’t stab people,” Skinny said.

Hoosier laughed and pulled Skinny down for a kiss. It didn’t quite work, with their teeth hitting and foreheads bumping.

Skinny laughed and leaned over Hoosier, holding his head still. “Just let me take care of it, like I always do.”

“Yes, sir,” Hoosier said.


	6. Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long time since Gene Roe and Babe Heffron shared the same space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect is meant. Title from The Gaslight Anthem’s _The ’59 Sound_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated.

**_Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow_ **

506 split up eight years ago, but the band and its crew still got together for an annual cook-out. There was no bad blood between any of them. Ron Speirs had to leave the band to raise his kids, and there was no 506 without Ron Speirs at the mic, leading them off. Gene Roe had few regrets from those years long past, he got to live the dream of touring stadiums around the world and playing to sell-out crowds, but he quite enjoyed his life now. The crowds still sold-out, just in much smaller venues. The music was softer, the entourage miniscule, the lyrics darker and sadder. It was usually just Gene and his guitar these days, and whatever mixed bag of touring musicians he could find.

Ron went off with his kids, took them from Tennessee to New York to Los Angeles and back. He was starting an art gallery, something to keep the kids grounded in the here and now and keep Ron from going insane. Ron needed art and its expression more than anyone else Gene ever met. The whole Speirs family was much the same and Gene prayed they could find what they needed on the streets of Music City.

Chuck Grant was their frontman. Ron sang the lyrics, but Chuck was the wordsmith. He played the bass like his life depended on it and wrote straight from the heart. Chuck settled in Brooklyn after the break-up, thought he was going to be living on the edge and moved just in time for the urban renewal. He still liked it though, even if he bitched about overpriced coffee and hipster kids, Chuck was one of the best music mentors out there. 

Bill Guarnere was their drummer. He could play fast and hard, though he learned through jazz and classic rock records. There was something timeless about Bill, he was an old soul who had a swagger few could match. Bill didn’t stick around the music scene much longer. Well, that wasn’t exactly fair to say. He went back to Philly and taught band classes and gave private music lessons. He worked by a barter system for the private lessons. It drove his wife Fran a little insane, but even she couldn’t deny that it was nice always having some newbie guitarist mowing their lawn in exchange for some lessons.

Bill was the one who brought Babe Heffron on board as their guitar and drum tech. Babe was this fresh faced kid at the start of high school when 506 started touring. He was the same age as Bill, but somehow just seemed years younger. Babe still worked the music scene; he was a lifer, just like Gene, never able to escape the allure of the business. And with Babe, hell, he alone held at least 85% of Gene’s regrets from that former lifetime.

Gene could be closed off, he could be cold. He was always there for his friends and family, always there for the show, but the constant toll of the road took something out of his soul. The years when 506 broke into the mainstream weren’t good for his peace of mind. He was never quite comfortable in his own skin, playing those stadium shows, with pyrotechnics and flashing lights. He wasn’t okay with the interviews that seemed far too invasive and everyone who wanted just a little bit of his time until they took it all. So when Babe came to him, young and confused and desperate for something the kid really didn’t fully understand at the time, Gene turned him down and turned him away.

And Babe never said boo about it. He kept his mouth shut and kept up his fool’s façade, but Gene could always see that rejection, lurking somewhere in those wide eyes of his, only there for a second before it was gone with a small joke and a forced laugh.

When 506 was done, so was Gene’s time with Babe, but that didn’t mean he stopped looking out for him. 

Gene couldn’t always connect with people on a personal level, he just had to keep to himself for sanity’s sake, but he had no qualms about sharing his music, knowledge and skills with anyone who came by looking. It kept Gene on the road for most of his life now, but he didn’t mind much. He had little calling him home, except a few relatives and childhood friends. Gene knew some of it was avoidance, the refusing to settle down, to think about what he lost, but it’s not like he didn’t feel the loneliness, sleeping in a cold hotel rooms and choking down another continental breakfast. Gene was well aware when he went to bed at night and when he woke up in the morning just what he lost. Even if it was hard to lose what you never really had in the first place, it didn’t mean you forgot the ghost of the opportunity.

So while he traveled the globe working for various bands and consulting companies, he kept his ear to the ground. He made sure Babe wasn’t working for any bands, managers, and labels known for shady deals. He tried his hardest to get him job opportunities on the tours where the hardest drugs were booze and pot. He did his damnedest to try to get Babe settled as a studio musician in New York, but apparently Edward Heffron had a wanderer’s soul too. Babe never stayed anywhere too long, unless it was home in Philly for the holidays. Still, Gene wanted to do what he could. He had no right to, he knew it was wrong of him to even make the assumption and change Babe’s employment opportunities, but out of all the 506 people, Gene was the only one still active in the business from a global perspective. Chuck and Shames, their old manager, really had no friggin’ clue what was going on in Munich’s music scene much less Sydney’s.

Everything was going fine, quietly, just like it was supposed to until one September night in Boston. Gene was in town to play his own set at the Middle East in Cambridge, but first he was doing an opening gig at the House of Blues for Flogging Molly. The last minute job was a personal favor. The second opening act just dropped off the tour and the first opener was some green kid from Virginia by the name of Walt Hasser. When Dave King called in a favor, Gene couldn’t say no. Not after he kidnapped Bridget and Nate last year for some help on his solo record.

He was just getting out of the Kenmore Street Station when he ran into Babe coming out of the 7-11. Shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen in real life and Gene was so surprised he almost dropped his guitar.

Babe reached his hands out, grasping onto the case in reflex. 

“Shit, Gene,” he said, “if you still got your Martin Sunburst in here, I’m going to kill you.”

“It’s a Taylor,” Gene said, “I left the Martin with Chuck.”

Babe’s eyes went wide.

“In a locked display case which only I have the keys to,” Gene quickly explained. Chuck was an amazing musician but he had the worst luck with instruments and Gene’s old Martin was a classic style they no longer produced.

Babe laughed and took a step back. “Christ, Gene Roe, how the hell have you been?”

Babe’s smile seemed genuine and there was a peace about him. He still had that manic energy under his skin, Babe never could sit still for long, always had to fiddle with something or talk to someone, but he’d grown up. Gone were the traces of the baby fat which earned him his nickname. His hair was shorter, darker even. There was a sardonic twist to his lips. His shoulders were broader, years of touring, lugging equipment and setting stages putting muscle and tone on his frame.

Gene just shook his head in disbelief at the sight before him. He shifted his guitar back to his shoulder and ran a hand through his short hair, trying not to twitch and give anything away.

“I’ve been well,” Gene said softly, “playing a couple shows.”

“Yeah, you’re playing with us tonight.”

“You’re touring with Flogging Molly?” Gene asked.

“Nah, Walt Hasser,” Babe said, “he’s signed to a friend’s label and I was asked to make sure the kid didn’t get into too much trouble.”

Gene shook his head. “God, you are an old hand now, aren’t you?”

“Over a decade in the business,” Babe agreed, “though nothing compared to you,” he said with a tap on Gene’s shoulder. “Loved the last album, by the way.”

Gene gave him a flat look. “That album was only supposed to be released in the UK and Ireland.”

“Jim Moray owed me a favor,” he explained.

Gene rolled his eyes. “I knew I was going to regret helping that upstart.”

Babe outright laughed at that one. “He’s not that bad.”

Gene let the silence answer for him.

“Are you going to the venue this early?” Babe asked.

Gene nodded. “I like to get a feel for a place.”

“I remember,” Babe said, “it’s spiritual with you. Almost like watching someone in Church.”

“Blasphemer,” Gene said.

Babe snorted. “I know for a fact that of all my sins, that one will be the least of God’s worries.”

Gene chose not to comment as they made the short walk to the venue. Technically you could take the Fenway stop, it was closer, but Gene always loved the quiet walks around the city and he knew Babe was the same.

“I know you’ve been kicking around the music scene all this time,” Gene said, “but anything else going on in your life?”

Babe shook his head. “Nah, just working where I can, when I can. Spent a lot of time in Brighton, last year, in England? They’ve got an interesting scene there.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get there before now.”

Babe shrugged. “I was kicking around Dublin and Brighton. And Luxembourg.”

“Luxembourg?” Gene asked. “I mean, they have some big festivals there, but really?”

“Centrally located for France, Germany, and Belgium,” Babe said, “it was actually pretty damn convenient.”

“And how’d you get around the language barrier?”

“My French isn’t that bad.”

“It’s beyond atrocious,” Gene said, “and your German’s not much better. I can’t imagine how you handled Luxembourgish.”

“With a shy smile and earnest eyes,” Babe said, “the old ladies took pity on me.”

“They always do,” Gene said. 

He couldn’t help the fond smile that emerged. Back in the early days, when they were living in vans and off any bits of food they could find, they’d send Babe out to gather food from the other acts in their fancy tour buses. If any of the acts had their parents visiting, Babe usually scrounged up enough to last them a month.

A brisk breeze moved through, bringing the unique smell of an early autumn evening in the city. The bars were alight and alive, waiting to see if the Red Sox would make it to the World Series this year. The House of Blues was right across the street from one of Fenway’s entrances and that alone was motivation enough for Gene to arrive early. The streets were already full and most of the people for the show hadn’t even lined up yet.

He desperately tried not to laugh when Babe openly gawked at the crowd.

“You never played here before?” Gene asked.

Babe nodded. “Last few times I’ve been here, it was still closed. I know The Orpheum like it’s home, though.”

“Welcome to the modern age and the big time,” Gene said, “you actually get air conditioning here.”

“Eh, a little heat stroke is worth it for the ambience,” Babe said.

They entered in through one of the side doors, the venue already full of employees and stage crew setting up for the night. The place was full of the sounds of clinking glasses and the pull of electrical tape. It wasn’t near time yet for sound check, but Gene could still practice backstage. 

“So, tell me about this new artist,” Gene said as they maneuvered the backstage labyrinth.

“Walt? Well, he’s one of those alternative country types, like the Avett Brothers. He’s too twangy to be rock and too garage band for mainstream Country. He’s got a spark though, Gene, you can just feel it with him.”

Gene nodded. It also felt like a gift, coming across a musician with true talent. Especially when you saw that they just needed a little coaching, a lot of patience, and a tough hand to bring them to their best. No musician or artist, no matter the talent, came into that first performance, song, demo, or album as perfect. All shows were practice runs on top of practice runs. It was just hell of a lot more enjoyable when you could sit back and watch the growth of someone with more than basic abilities.

 

“I’d love to have a chat with him,” Gene said.

Babe ducked his head and smiled. “He’s been dying to meet you for ages, Gene, you’re one of his inspirations.”

“Thanks for making me feel even older, Edward,” Gene said.

Babe punched him in the arm. “Take it for the compliment it is, you’ve been around for over a decade now, you’ve picked up a few acolytes along the way.”

“Somehow _The Church of Gene Roe_ doesn’t make me feel any more accomplished.”

“You should see your Facebook group.”

Gene just shook his head. He’d never get all the social networking bullshit, he understood it’s value for promoting messages and music, but hell, give him old paper flyers and meet-and-greets any day. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew the music business had to change in terms of actual _business_ , but kids were still in their parents’ garages making music just like before. Only now you could post it online and maybe get a development deal. It was still a-shot-in-the-dark for a contract, but no amount of YouTube videos or Last FM listens would ever take the place of stage experience. 

Walt Hasser was clearly the type of young kid who knew that, if he’d tied himself to Babe and a Flogging Molly tour. 

Gene came to the back room and set down his guitar. He took a deep breath and centered himself before he took off his jacket.

“I know you like to be alone when you warm up,” Babe said softly, “but can I stay, just this once?”

Gene looked over his shoulder at Babe and it was like seeing a memory full of wide dark eyes and messy red hair. The awe was still there, always under layers of swagger and a smart-ass tone. Babe still knew how to do reverence, let it shine from the bowing of his head to his hushed voice. 

It had been a long time since Babe sat in on a warm up; Gene couldn’t even remember the last time. Things had changed since then and Gene was far from the same man. 

He nodded his assent and pulled out his guitar.

************

Walt Hasser looked at Gene the way Gene once looked at Ry Cooder and Gregg Ginn. He was still uncomfortable with that sort of adulation, never did find himself worthy of it, he was just a backwoods Cajun who knew a thing or two about Swamp Blues. 

The kid could play and he had some stage presence. Gene could see why Babe was pushing so hard to develop him. Walt could be a major player, he had the the boyish good looks and welcoming smile that always did well among the Country music demographics. He still needed to work a bit on the stage presence, didn’t quite have the spiel and the casual chatter down, but that would come with time. 

The hardest part was always getting your ass on the stage. Once you got past that, it was just a matter of trying not to screw everything up too hard and just keeping your wits about you.

“I really appreciate you taking the time out for me, Sir,” Walt said.

“No need to call me that,” Gene said, “Gene or Roe will do just fine.”

Walt nodded and seemed to stumble over his words for a minute. 

“I really ain’t as important as you making me out to be,” Gene said, slipping into the Cajun accent that always soothed the nerves.

Walt laughed. “With all due respect, Mr. Roe, your music is what got me through middle school. There was just something about 506, the way you guys played, it just, spoke to something in me. Made me feel like there was some purpose out there I wasn’t finding before.”

Gene nodded. “Someone’s always got to show you the road,” he agreed, “but you’re the one who decides to take it.”

“Do you ever come down to Nashville much?” Walt asked.

“I have a few connections there, but it’s not a city I have roots in, not like Edward.”

“Edward?” Walt asked.

“Babe,” Gene clarified.

“He lets you call him Edward, wow,” Walt said.

“It is his name,” Gene said.

“Yeah, but everyone calls him Babe,” Walt said.

“Gene ain’t everyone,” Babe said, sitting down beside them. He turned to Walt. “You done talking his ear off?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Edward,” Gene said, “the boy ain’t causing no harm.”

“Gene, once you start talking about music you don’t stop for five hours. It’s like you got to get all your talking done at once for the rest of the month. Dave said something about you having a show tomorrow?”

“It’s only a small show, I’m playing Upstairs at the Middle East.”

“Which means you’ll probably play longer than your scheduled set, because the more intimate the crowd the longer you play,” Babe said. 

“How long have you two known each other?” Walt asked.

“A fair few years but it’s been about five or six years since we last saw each other,” Gene said.

“It’s been seven,” Babe said, “the last time was Bill Jr.’s First Communion.”

Walt’s jaw sort of dropped. “Babe, how young were you when you first started touring?”

“Bill’s older brother had to act as my guardian, and his as well, but we were about fourteen on that first tour,” he said.

“The rest of us we’re all 17 or 18, so we had to watch ourselves around them,” Gene said.

“Ma Guarnere still blames you for all our bad habits,” Babe said.

“Clearly she needs to look to her own sons,” Gene said. 

Babe nodded and looked at his watch. “We do need to head out though, need to get everything situated before driving down to Jersey.”

“Chuck going to stop by for a visit?” he asked. 

“He always does,” Babe said. 

Gene stood up and held his hand out to Walt. “Nice to meet you, kid, you ever need some help, give me a call.”

“Thanks,” Walt said, shaking his hand for a solid five minutes. He blushed when his brain caught up to his actions and quickly hurried out of the room, mumbling about breaking down the stage.

Babe watched him go with a shake of his head. “He’s a good kid, just still gets star-struck.”

“We all do,” Gene said. 

Babe pulled Gene into a hug. “You don’t fucking disappear on me for seven years again, you hear?”

“I was always around,” Gene said.

“But you weren’t _here_ ,” Babe said. He pulled back and folded his arms across his chest. “I got your itinerary from Anna. I _will_ hunt your ass down if you pull this bullshit again.”

“I’ll be prepared,” Gene said.

Babe nodded and started to walk out of the room.

“Hey, Edward,” Gene called after him.

“Yeah?” Babe asked.

“I missed you too.”


	7. My Cherrybomb, You Are a Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babe and Roe, four years after _Quiet and Minor and Peaceful and Slow_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of a Time Stamp meme. Unbeated. Title from The Gaslgiht Anthems _Old Haunts_.

**_My Cherrybomb, You Are a Mystery_ **

 

Gene never thought he’d be here, sharing a house with Babe, having a plot of land to call their own. But that was their mailbox outside, their shoes by the door, their coats piled up on the couch, and their keys strewn across the table. This was their home, and that idea of a singular place tying Gene down was a novel concept. He never was one for roots, but Edward had a way of forcing them down and making them stay. 

It hadn’t been easy, the past four years, and they hardly had an auspicious start. When Babe came back into his life, Gene was already starting to feel his years. Up until then the music, the road, and the shows had been enough. Seeing Babe again, that was like walking right to the edge and looking over. It brought up all sorts of thoughts about what could’ve been and what should be. Gene fell off everyone’s radar that October; he needed to be alone to sort out his mind. He needed time. He emerged in January with a new album, a new perspective, and Bill Guarnere making all kinds of groundhog jokes.

Babe arrived in the night, when word came out Gene was back among the living, and had rarely left since. Gene forgot what it was like, trying to work around Babe in a stubborn fit, but he also knew when to concede to someone with more sense. 

They were here now, and while it would be foolish to say they forgot the past, that there weren’t fights and some darker tinges of pain, rejection, and resentment, they were as complete as they could ever possibly be. Gene had never been so content with everything in his life. One of the best things was that when that itch came into his veins, when he just had to get away, Babe had no qualms about packing up and coming with him. 

Autumn was coming, each morning brought new frost over the lawn, and Gene was starting to get a chill in his bones. 

“Should I call Ron and tell him we’re coming for a visit?” Babe asked, settling down beside him. He tugged the guitar out of Gene’s hands and laid his head on Gene’s shoulder.

“It’ll still be cold there,” Gene said.

“Yeah, but you’ll be closer to warmer cities,” Babe said.

Gene hummed in agreement. They needed to check on Scott and Casey, there were confessions you could make face-to-face that never came over e-mails or phone calls. It couldn’t be easy, living in a house with their father’s new partner, but Carwood Lipton seemed like a decent sort.

“You really won’t calm down until you can see the littlest Speirs’ with your own eyes,” Babe said.

“Stop reading my mind.”

Babe bit the side of Gene’s chin in response.

Gene laughed and pinched Babe in the side. “None of that.”

Babe sighed. “I know you, Gene,” he said, “it isn’t exactly difficult to see when you need to get the hell out of Dodge.”

“I’m not used to staying still,” Gene admitted.

“You stay with people, Gene, not places. It’s more important I’m with you, no matter where the hell we go.”

“You have gone and spoiled me.”

Babe smirked and laid his head down in Gene’s lap, long fingers catching and holding onto Gene’s wrist. “That was my master plan, of course, make it so you can never sleep alone again. Fran told me all about it.”

“And she would know better than anyone how to rein in a hurricane,” Gene said.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” Babe declared. 

“Don’t you have to tech Walt’s show next week?”

“The kid needs to learn to stand on his own. Besides, Lieb is pretty much demanding we get our ass down South to see his new artist. The kid’s a Cajun like you.”

Gene smirked. “That boy always had a taste for my people.”

“God, don’t remind me,” Babe said, “I almost decked him the first time he let it slip about your past. Took the bastard forever to clarify he’d slept with your cousin.”

Gene tugged on Babe’s hair. “Even back then my intentions were firmly placed elsewhere. Remy, well, he’s never met a body he doesn’t like.”

Babe smiled up at Gene, the genuine, toothy grin, that rarely came after long hours and lugging around instruments and equipment. It’d been ages since Babe had taken this much time off, Gene never saw him so relaxed.

He was reluctant to break the peace they had in this house, their home, but neither one of them were ones for denying reality. Sooner or later, work, friends, emergencies, they’d all come encroaching on their sanctuary. Might as well leave here on their own terms rather than anyone else’s.

“You go make the plane reservations and I’ll pack our bags,” Gene said.

Babe dug his shoulder blades into Gene’s thighs, keeping him in place. 

“In a minute,” he said, “just one more minute. We’ve got all the time in the world.”


	8. Sting of the Scorpion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Skinny tried to quit smoking. Part of a Time Stamp meme. Title from The Horrible Crowes' _Black Betty & the Moon_

**_Sting of the Scorpion_ **

 

Skinny Sisk started smoking when he was 18. He wasn’t proud of it, but hell, of all the things to use as stress relief on a tour full of chart-topping pop stars and their hanger-ons, cigarettes seemed the least dangerous of the lot.

His father wasn’t too happy about it, said the last thing a security guard needed was decreased lung capacity, but even Wayne Sisk Sr. agreed that smoking Marlboros was much better than snorting lines of coke. Skinny always swore he’d quit by the time he turned 21. It seemed like a nice trade off, legally buying cigarettes for legally buying beer, but life didn’t really care about Skinny’s plans for his future health. His 21st year was one of the most stressful of his life, with the rise of 3B’s fame, the increase of Hoosier’s anxiety, and Nix’s nightly attempts to drink a bathtub full of gin. Skinny promised himself he’d get down to one pack a day by his 22nd birthday.

Of course, his 22nd year was the Year of Hell. Sink, the head of 3B’s label, decided Winters would serve the label better if he was sent to develop new copy-cat artists. The loss of Winters sent all the boys off the deep-end and somehow made Nixon an even greater mess. After Winters was sent off, Sobel dismissed Harry Welsh as the Touring Manager, which caused Johnny Martin, one of the senior security guys, to quit. Then came the firing of Sobel, who for all his faults was a damn good manager, the hiring of Norman Dike, who was much better suited to a corner office, and the rapid descent of 3B’s success. By the end of the year, Skinny was on a three-pack-a-day habit.

He decided he was going to quit, for good, by the time he hit 25.

 

************

 

“You need to get out here,” Lip’s voice rasped over the phone.

“It’s 3 AM,” Skinny said.

“Skinny, it’s Hoosier,” Lip said, “you need to get out here _now_.”

Skinny sat bolt upright in bed, his heart racing. “Carwood, don’t tell me he’s--”

“--he’s not,” Lip said, “but not for lack of trying. We need you out here, Skinny. Someone needs to watch over his ass.”

“Okay, I’ll be on the next flight out.” He closed his phone and threw it back on the nightstand.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair and tried to calm his ass down. Right now he needed to be rational and ready, he couldn’t make any stupid decisions.

It was a perfect fucking week to stop smoking. 

He quit two days ago and he was starting to hit withdrawals bad. His nerves were shot, raw, and he’d never snapped at so many people in a singular week. Hell, Hoosier had even called last night and Skinny hadn’t answered because he just couldn’t deal with all that bullshit, not when his head was pounding and his mouth felt like the friggin’ Sahara. 

It was typical of Hoosier, always waiting until Skinny was at his most vulnerable to massively fuck something up. He couldn’t wait to rip him a new one. Hoosier was a grown man, he shouldn’t require constant supervision, and he had a boyfriend to clean up after his messes.

It was a damn good thing Skinny couldn’t take his gun with him.

 

************

 

Even though Skinny liked to pride himself on using the least amount of violent force possible, sometimes a punch in the face was required. Going through withdrawal symptoms, flying across the country with nonexistent nerves, dealing with hospital client privacy privilege bullshit and finding Hoosier sitting up in a bed in the psych ward laughing his ass off? The only possible reaction was a punch to the jaw. 

Hoosier blinked and shook his head while everyone in the room stayed silent. 

“You’re late,” Hoosier said. 

Skinny could feel his fingers dig deep enough into his palms to draw blood. Thank god Lip was there to pull him out.

“Where you going?” Hoosier called after them.

“God, you do have a death wish,” Nix replied. 

Lip dragged Skinny by the collar all the way out to the parking deck.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Fuck you, Lip,” Skinny said. He patted his pockets, praying in vain for a pack to be hidden somewhere. 

Lip shook his head and pulled a pack of Newports out of his back pocket.

“Yours?” Skinny asked in surprise.

“Nix’s, Winters is trying to wean him off the strong tobacco.”

Skinny took it without a thought, trying to ignore the trembling in his hands as he shook a cigarette out.

Lip lit it for him and leaned back against one of the cars.

“So, quitting?”

“Really not the time,” Skinny said after he savored the first puff. 

“Do we need to stick you with Hoosier in the psych ward?”

“Probably,” Skinny admitted, “but you can’t deny he had it coming.”

Lip nodded. “You’re the only one who can ever get through to him. I know it’s not your mess to pick up, but Skinny--”

“I spent my flight arranging to have Hoosier’s things packed and moved to a new apartment. I’ll stay two weeks out here and then head back to Nashville.”

Lip nodded and held out a pack of gum as Skinny stubbed out his cigarette.

“We really need to get you to quit for good,” he said.

Skinny shrugged. “You want me to quit? Tell Hoosier to get his shit together.”

Lip smirked. “So, we should go ahead and put your cause of death down as lung cancer.”

“Or heart attack. Either way, you tell the coroner that Hoosier’s to blame.”

“What could’ve happened--”

“—it didn’t,” Skinny cut him off, “and we’re not going to act like it did. Hell, it’s Hoosier, he likes to forget his limits. So we’ll act like everything is normal, treat Patrick like the fucking asshole he is and I’ll be here helping Hoosier get on with his life. Again.”

“What are you going to do when Hoosier finally figures out you two are basically living in some twisted common law open marriage?”

Skinny waved the pack of Newports in reply.


	9. I Won't Grow Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A birthday on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. Title from Frank Turner’s _Photosynthesis_
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated.

**_I Won't Grow Up_ **

One of the major trade-offs of working as a musician for a living was that you lived most of your days on the road. From crappy vans, to truck stops, to motels which were only fit for the bodies hid under the mattresses, it was a worthy price to pay for performing. Years were spent touring in promotion of a single album; more money was made on shows and merch than record sales these days. So there was no going home for the holidays, birthdays and anniversaries were missed, and the only travel passes came when a close friend or relative died. Shows were performed while homesick, actually sick, with broken fingers and toes. _The show must go on_ was a mantra to live by when there was money to be made. 

Lew Juergens knew the trade off when he got into the business, but it didn’t really bother him as a young kid with stars in his eyes. At the time he just wanted to make enough to play without having to keep down two jobs. He hit the jackpot, getting a record deal and a job with a studio and production company in one go. It meant that he he was able to work in the business both on and off the road, but it still had its own cost-benefit analysis. He could make more money as a songwriter, producer, and studio musician with a stable life. He could have his own music, that he wrote and performed, reach a larger audience if he toured. And by touring he also helped keep Coconut & Rhyme Records in business. 

All that rational thought didn’t make it any easier to spend his birthday alone in the back of his band’s van, staring up at the passing night sky while they drove to the next gig. The guys had been great about celebrating it, took him out and got him drunk, shoved caked down his shirt and in his mouth, generally tried to cheer him up so he couldn’t think about who wasn’t there. 

It was great touring with Walt Hasser, Merriell Shelton, and Gene Roe. It was a honor to share the stage with a musician like Roe, but it made it really fucking hard to not get bitter and angsty when all the other guys had their partners out here and Runner was back in Nashville working on their newest act, Lucy Otis. He still felt like an ass though, moping like this while he was touring places he’d never have the chance to see otherwise. 

Joe Liebgott, their tour manager, was behind the wheel of the van. A former tour bus driver Chuckler knew from back when they both worked for 3B, he had no problem driving through the night. Since Shelton and Lew shared a band, and since Lieb was currently acting as Shelton’s keeper, he took the night shift. 

“Still awake back there?” Lieb asked over the sound of the road and Shelton’s snoring. 

“Can’t sleep,” he said.

“Call him,” Lieb said, taking an exit.

“Who?” Lew asked.

“Don’t be a jackass,” Lieb said, pulling into a gas station. “I’ve got to piss and get a cup of coffee anyway. If any of the sleeping beauties wake up, tell them they got fifteen minutes to take care of their business.”

“Noted,” Lew said.

He crawled over the seat and popped the back door open. He breathed in the cold Mid-West night air and shivered under his white t-shirt. His legs wobbled as he stretched them out. He really was too damn tall to be folded up in the back of a van for hours. He pulled out his cell phone. It was five a.m. still a little early for waking Runner up, but not nearly enough to get him killed.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Runner asked.

“Hi, Will,” Lew said.

“Hi, yourself,” he said, “what the hell are you doing up?”

“Still sugar rushing,” Lew said, leaning against the back bumper.

“You enjoyed the cake?”

“Chocolate on chocolate with chocolate, what’s not to like?”

“Life’s good for the birthday boy, then,” Runner said.

“I’ve got no complaints,” Lew said.

“You’re a shitty liar,” Runner said, “but we’ll celebrate in two weeks. Country Music Awards mean all your asses have to get home on time.”

“We’re all counting down the days to hot showers, reliable transportation, and decent food. Our next tour’s got to be closer to home.”

Runner went quiet on the line. Lew knew it wasn’t easy for him, having to juggle the roles of label A&R and significant other. “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised.

“Maybe I’ll just pull a Hillbilly,” Lew said.

“Even Hillbilly tours once a year,” Runner said, “it’s part of the business.”

“I know,” Lew said, not wanting to get into this argument again. They both had jobs to do, and Lew had an amazing and supportive fan base which kept growing. He was one lucky bastard and couldn’t let himself forget that. 

“You’d go insane if you were in one place all year,” Runner said, “you start losing it after three months. I know that means nothing though, when you just want come home. When _I_ just want you back here.”

“Bed’s gone cold.”

“Pillow-Man Lew just doesn’t satisfy me.”

“How dare you sully my pillow-avatar’s reputation.”

“His technique needs some work.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“You’ve tried,” Runner said.

Lew could feel his face burning and was really damn grateful everyone else was sleeping. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me on my birthday?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ll be very nice once you get home, but as for now you get the typical response for waking me up at five in the morning. You guys stopped? Because I know Shelton has a tendency to throw cell phones out of the window if people wake him up.”

It was true. He’d seen Shelton do it at least five times.

“We’re at a gas station somewhere outside of Springfield. The one in Illinois,” he said.

“You going to meet up with the family?” Runner asked.

“I’ll wait until we get to Chicago, last show, more time with the family.”

“Say hi to your mom for me.”

“ _You_ talk to her once a day,” Lew said.

“She’s a very interesting woman who sends me homemade gingersnaps and your embarrassing baby pictures. I love talking to her, but still, always nice to have manners.”

Lew smiled. His mother adored Runner and every time Lew talked to her, she told him as much. “She wants us there for Thanksgiving.”

“I’ll do my best,” Runner promised. He yawned. “We both need to get some sleep, Lew.”

“I know,” Lew said. He needed to get back in the van too. His fingers were starting to go numb. Besides, he could see Lieb at the counter, playing for his tub of coffee. “I miss you,” he admitted. 

“I know,” Runner said, “and I am actually counting the days over here. Just ask Gibson, he’ll tell you I’m a rat bastard until I can rip another sheet off my day calendar.”

“We’re pathetic.”

“It’s what makes us work. Go to sleep, Lew.”

“Sorry for waking you up.”

“I’d rather be talking to you than sleeping, but you have a gig tonight and you always play like shit when you’re cranky.”

“See you in two weeks,” Lew said.

“I’ll be waiting,” Runner said before he hung up. 

Lew smiled as he hung up the phone. He didn’t know how the hell people managed before cell phones. If he couldn’t call back home whenever he needed to, he’d probably be certifiable by now. 

“You done being a sappy ball less wonder?” Lieb asked as he got to the van.

“At least until this afternoon.”

“Good, get your ass back in the van so we can get to that crack den in Springfield they’re calling a hotel. We got to catch up with the other guys.”

“Thanks, Lieb,” Lew said.

Lieb shrugged. “Needed the coffee. Besides, if I wasn’t getting laid on a regular basis while everyone else around me was, I’d be a cranky pain in the ass too.”

Lew shook his head as he crawled back into the van. Lieb might be a highly respected tour manager in the business, but his attitude was just the same as it was ten years ago. 

As birthdays went, it wasn’t Lew’s worst. That was when he was ten and his grandpa bought him a guitar. On that same day Lew crashed his new motorbike and broke his arm. It was a long recovery while he waited to get healed enough to play again. He’d had better birthdays too, but, hell, he had a good show last night. He had a venue full of fans waiting for him tonight. It was a good job, good work, and a good life if you could get it. Some shitty draw backs, but hell, he could’ve been an office drone instead. 

All and all, another good year in the life of Lew Juergens.


	10. Heart is Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy wants to learn how to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. Title from Dierks Bentley’s _Love Grows Wild_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated. Mostly background. More domestic fluff than anyone can dare stand.

Andrew Haldane’s hands were made for writing letters and throwing footballs; for flipping through old books and tinkering with machines. He could wield a hammer or an axe without hesitation and easily drew out game day strategies. He could put together a carburetor block and electrically wire a house. He received his carpentry licensure under his father’s watchful eyes. He did not have the fingers of an artist or a musician and felt clumsy, cradling the smooth strings and frets of the guitar in his hands. His calluses were in the wrong place, his fingertips didn’t move quick enough, he felt awkward trying to maneuver his limbs around the guitar body.

Really, he didn’t know why he bothered. Well, that was a lie, he knew damn well, _why_ but it’s not like his partner, Eddie Jones, would _care_. Eddie always said he loved Andy in spite of his lack of guitar-laden musical talent.

Andy loved music, he always had. Even as a kid, he remembered watching his father dance his mother around the kitchen while The Temptations crooned though the old console radio. He wasn’t used to liking things as the spectator, in the audience. Andy was born to participate, could never quiet the urge to do something for himself, to discover it on its own, how to make it work, how to make it _his_. But music, that was always the one thing that made him sit back and enjoy, without feeling any guilt over not being constantly active. 

He was lucky, living in New England. There was always some new up-and-coming band, either the students out of Berklee or the kids with nothing but an instrument and a dream from all over the region. The musical festivals and free shows, the supportive, sprawling scene led him to meeting lifer after lifer in the business, from merch guys to tour managers, roadies to bus drivers. He still remembered the first time he met Ken Casey, stumbling across him in an auto repair shop of all places, amazed that the man who growled over Dropkick Murphys’ tracks could calmly read _Better Homes & Gardens_ with a smile on his face. 

That moment, it made the actual talent more human to him than ever before. He started paying attention to the talent as human beings rather than artists. Learned that though quite a few did want the fame and the glory, most just wanted to play enough to make a steady income. 

And still he marveled at their talent, the way they effortlessly played, even though Andy knew logically, hours upon years upon decades went into their work. They were in a constant state of practice and improvement. Even the established greats knew better than to get rusty, to rest on their laurels, to forget that fame and success could easily and quickly turn against you.

Despite all his knowledge, love, and obsession with music, specifically the guitar led, he never wanted to play, not really. He could pound out a decent tune on the piano, though his father begged him never to attempt the bagpipes again. Andy was content being in the audience, watching others work their craft, until he stumbled into a dive bar in Knoxville.

Life changing epiphanies aren’t supposed to happen in dive bars, but once Andy arrived in Knoxville, things never quite went as he planned.

And he never planned on Knoxville. 

Andy planned on finishing his Bachelor’s and applying to Harvard Law or Suffolk. His mother loved the idea, even if Boston was full of lawyers, it was something better than being a high school football coach and teaching Health and Physical Education. His father ordered him to look at other options first. He traveled down to Duke, didn’t like the brick and mortar feeling of Durham and decided to drive the Blue Ridge Parkway before going back home.

It was at a rest stop just over the North Carolina border where he fell in love with the area. He saw a sign listing the miles to Knoxville and figured why the hell not. He always loved learning about the Tennessee Valley Authority. 

If he stayed in New England who would’ve followed the same path set out for him and all his peers. Go to a good high school, an Ivy League, a Law School, and then join one of the many firms in Boston. Andy liked to argue but he never wanted to be _paid_ for it. He didn’t know what his father expected as the result of Andy’s impromptu tour of the Southern states, but announcing at the family reunion that he was going to the University of Tennessee and studying anthropology certainly wasn’t what Grandma Bessie was hoping for.

He liked Knoxville, even if it came with its own body farm and too many federal authorities milling about. 

He was halfway through his master’s program when he stumbled into a rundown bar. Well, pizza place. Honestly, both. Depending on the time of day Brick Crossing served a different function. 

On the stage sat Eddie Jones, holding court with nothing but a stool, a mic, and a guitar to bring people in. He’d heard about Eddie from various members of the musical community around town, heard his name whispered in awe and muttered in revelation. The man had his own set of legends around him, everything from people saying he’d made a deal at a crossroads Robert Johnson style, to rumors about being a country star in disguise or a traveling ghost musician.

After five shots of whiskey and a tumble in a dark alley, Andy could attest to the fact that Eddie Jones was a flesh-and-blood man. He didn’t know about the crossroad deal, and wouldn’t find out for another six months about Eddie’s hatred for big music. All he knew after that first night was that Eddie’s hands had callouses of all kinds, not just from guitar strings. He knew what Eddie’s mouth tasted like after a tequila shot, knew what it felt like to have his slim frame pressed up against a brick wall, to tangle fingers in curly hair, warmed by the humidity of a summer night.

It was a move that could’ve gotten them both arrested, assaulted, or both, but someone was looking out for them that night, and all the times after.

************

“Why are you doing this again?” Hoosier Smith asked, guitar cradled in his hands as the sounds of the Nashville night surrounded them.

“I want to surprise Eddie,” Andy told him.

Hoosier used to be a pop star, he knew how to play. Now he was a part-time bartender for the hell of it, letting his royalties cover his living expenses and using his tip-money to amuse him for whatever else. Jumping out of airplanes, climbing mountains, and doing his level best to make Skinny Sisk lose all his hair before the age of forty. 

Hoosier fit in well with _Allison’s_ , he was the asshole bartender. Mike Wynn was his older, nicer bartender.

“I don’t see why you’re bothering.” Hoosier said, “you already live and sleep with the man.”

“Hell, Andy,” Mike said, “Eddie probably likes you because you’re not a musician.”

“It is such a chore to have more than one diva attitude in a relationship,” Hoosier said with a straight face.

“Help me or I tell that journalist your true history and take away all your fun,” Andy threatened.

“Aww, don’t ruin my Leckie visits. That’s cruel and unusual, Haldane,” Hoosier said, twirling a pick between his fingers.

“You’re cruel and unusual,” Andy shot back. He never was one for poetic license.

“Aren’t you college boys supposed to have better insults than a seven-year-old?” Hoosier said.

“Fuck you, Bill.”

“Sorry, Andy, I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“Kids, don’t make me separate you two,” Mike said. He pointed to Hoosier. “You are going to help the man who signs your paychecks. And you,” he said pointing to Andy, “are just going to have to deal with the consequences of asking Hoosier for help.”

“He taught Chuckler,” Andy said.

“Chuckler had innate talent,” Hoosier said.

Mike slapped Hoosier on the back of the head. “Be nice or I’ll call Sisk.”

Hoosier grumbled but settled back and studied Andy. “You know this is hopeless, right? You want to learn how to play a song in less than a week.”

“Hell, Hoosier, I’m not asking you to teach me _Stairway to Heaven_. Just give me something you’d teach a kid,” Andy said.

“Kids have more nimble fingers than you,” Hoosier said.

“Bill, I swear to all that is holy--” Andy started.

“Okay, fine,” Hoosier interrupted him, “but we’re going to need some additional help.”

“Like who?” Andy asked.

Hoosier just smirked.

************

Their move to Nashville came due to three major events. Andy graduated, his uncle Eliot died, and Eddie signed a song-writing deal with a bluegrass label. Andy could’ve stayed in Knoxville, gone for his Doctorate, but he’d grown used to a life shared with Eddie; he couldn’t live without those prefect grilled cheese sandwiches and Sunday mornings filled with the faint sound of piano-laden hymns. 

Uncle Eliot left him a large sum of money in his will. There was only one requirement, Andy couldn’t become a lawyer. Uncle Eliot went to his grave hating the profession and had to get that last jab in after death. 

So while Eddie negotiated his contract, Andy drove through Nashville, its outskirts and suburbs. Across the street from a second-hand instrument store he found an old bar for sale, plastered paint peeling and dusty windows under a wooden sign that read _Allison’s_.

Andy was never one to believe in things like fate, but he also knew when to take a hint.

Logically he knew that buying a bar before they even had a house wasn’t the smartest thing to do in the world, but the label already promised Eddie some artist housing that would work in the interim. They spent four months in cramped quarters, while Eddie secured business contacts and they both started the clean-up process of _Allison’s_. One night, while driving back from some church flea market, they stumbled across their home. Sat back far from the road, they almost missed the “For Sale By Owner” sign. 

In one year Andy went from a graduate student to a business and home owner and it all somehow felt _right_. And most of that had to do with the supportive musical man at his side. Eddie was used to a life of hardship, growing up in a large but poor family. There was never enough money to go around, but it was a house full of love. Most of what Eddie made still went back to his Mom and younger siblings. Eddie wanted the babies, as he called them, to be able to go to college. To live without the worry that always gnawed at him and his older siblings. Andy had more than enough from his inheritance, stock investments, and jobs he picked up to support the two of them. One of the reasons he’d fallen so hard for Eddie was his unwavering devotion to his family, and he thanked whatever deity out there was listening for letting him stumble into the path of such a man.

************

Hoosier’s idea of _help_ was recruiting Runner Conley, who only signed talent, he didn’t play anything, and Ray Person who, well, he was in a band at one time. In two days they’d achieved precisely nothing.

“Okay, look, Eddie gets back from Las Vegas in a week and the closest Haldane is to performing is Hot Cross Buns via recorder,” Runner said. 

“I always felt like the recorder got the bullshit treatment by all the other musical instruments. It’s like the Wildebeests of the Animal Kingdom. No one thinks of the poor Recorder,” Ray said. 

“Person, please, shut the fuck up,” Runner said as he slapped Ray on the back of the head. “Now we all know Haldane is doomed to fail, but he’s gone to bat for all of us at one point or the other so the least we can do is teach the guy how to play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star or some shit.”

“I can hear you,” Andy said from his table. “And for you information, Person, I do know how to play the recorder. It led to my career as a trumpeter in the school band.”

“You were in band?” Ray asked.

Andy shrugged. “It was the 90s, schools still had funding for music programs. I spent more time on the football field, but since I sucked at basketball, I needed something to do in the winter other than hockey.”

“Wait, what the hell,” Hoosier said. “You can play the fucking trumpet but you can’t figure out a simple six-string?”

“They’re not the same instrument,” Andy said. “I never said I couldn’t play _any_ instrument.”

“Then why the hell are we here?” Hoosier asked.

“Because Hillbilly sleeps with his guitar,” Ray said.

“Bed must be crowded,” Mike said.

“Between the guitars, the dog, and Pointy-Elbowed Jones,” Andy said, “just a bit.”

“How is that you’ve managed to live with Eddie for six years and you still don’t know how to play a full song?” Mike asked. 

Andy shrugged. “We get distracted during lessons.”

“Really,” Ray said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Andy chucked a bottle cap at his head. “I hate to shatter your illusions, Person, but real grown-ups have to take care of things like bills, household matters, and random homeless kids from Missouri who drop in their laps and need a place to live.”

“I offered to prostitute myself on the streets; it’s not my fault you have a thing for Little Orphan Annies,” Ray said.

“If I threaten to withhold your pay, will you stop talking?” Andy asked.

“Not as long as he has a decent vantage point to stare at Walt Hasser’s ass,” Runner said.

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need a beer,” he muttered as he walked over to the bar.

“I just don’t understand _why_ you feel the need to do this,” Runner said, “ _everyone_ knows you worship Eddie.”

“Conley, what the hell are you talking about?” Andy asked. 

“You did build Eddie a recording studio,” Hoosier said. “Hell, I don’t know anyone else who’s given out one of those for a birthday surprise.”

“I didn’t want him driving on those country roads at night,” Andy said.

Mike shook his head. “Stop making Andy feel like a jackass, boys. We all know that studio is nothing fancy and only big enough to fit three people inside. Don’t be jealous that Skinny doesn’t love you enough to put one of those in your house, Hoosier.”

“Sisk would build me one in a heartbeat if he didn’t think I’d ruin the equipment with beer and cigarette smoke,” Hoosier said.

Andy said nothing, just looked at the clock above and saw it was time to open. Chuckler was playing tonight and that meant they’d be packed. Mike was thinking the same thing too and he nodded at Andy when their eyes met.

“Alright, boys, time to get to work. Got a show to put on tonight,” Mike said.

Andy smiled and silently thanked god for Mike. He was the only reason Eddie and Andy felt like they could ever leave this place for an extended period of time. Hoosier would just drink all their beer and Ray would try and turn it into a sex club, but Mike, he always knew what he was doing.

************

Their home was on an old horse farm. A majority of the land had been sold off into large lots, but most of their neighbors were still separated by pastures and woods. Eddie had a whole stack of old horseshoes either he or Bocephus dug up. Their garage was a converted stable and in the morning the smell of the local tobacco smokehouse filled the air. It wasn’t the type of place Andy pictured for himself as a child, but he didn’t think he could find a decent peace anywhere else now. 

Only a handful of people knew they were married. Not that it mattered in Tennessee, but it mattered in Massachusetts and even though they’d done it on a whim three years ago, it still felt _right_. They’d only gone to see Andy’s parents after Mike Wynn came rolling into Nashville. They were back in his home state, surrounded by his family and old friends for a week when Andy woke up one morning and dragged Eddie, his parents, and his cousin Vera down to the courthouse. 

Mama Jones was pretty damn pissed she’d missed the big event. They went to visit her later that year and she threw them a huge party, complete with a homemade wedding cake, and a huge puppy as a wedding gift. Even then, when Bocephus was nothing but three months old, his paws were huge. He was part wolfhound, part retriever, and Andy swore he was part horse too. 

He fit in perfectly with their life in Nashville. Felt like the missing piece had finally slotted in, the one they didn’t even know they needed.

************

“Why the guitar?” Ray asked.

“Because Eddie gave me this guitar,” Andy said, gesturing to the instrument in his lap.

“What about his banjos,” Ray said.

“Even _I_ don’t touch his banjos,” Andy said. 

“And that doesn’t worry you? That obsession he has with them?” Ray asked. 

Andy shrugged. “They’re family heirlooms and even if the instruments themselves weren’t worth vast sums of money, they’re full of memory and history. It might have escaped your notice, Ray, but until recently there was precious little Eddie held on to.”

“And now he’s got the house, the dog, and the husband,” Ray said. He made a face. “God, you two are sickening and really fucking boring.”

Andy laughed so hard he actually cried.

************

Eddie came home two days early looking like hell. He stumbled into the house bleary-eyed, barely coherent, and in desperate need of a shave. 

“You tried to drive it all straight through, didn’t you?” Andy asked.

Eddie flopped down on the couch next to him, burying his head under one of the throw pillows.

“Apparently it’s a bad idea to chug down those five hour energy drinks like they’re water,” his muffled voice replied.

Andy poked his stomach, trying not to wrinkle his nose at what he long called _Eau de Rest Stop_. “Remember that time where I told you I didn’t want you to die of electric shock before the age of 40. Now I’m amending to it to add, _or a caffeine induced heart attack_.”

“I don’t even have the energy to give you the finger right now, Andy, but just to let you know, I’m thinking it,” Eddie said. 

“I’m shocked by your vulgar sign language. My virgin eyes are sullied. I shall never be able to look you in the face again.”

Eddie pushed the pillow of his face and threw it at Andy’s head, missing by a mile.

“It’s a good thing you never tried to play baseball,” Andy said.

“Shut up and help me to bed,” Eddie demanded. 

“If only all those boys and girls who idolize you and your calm, collected nature could see you now,” Andy said, trying his best not to laugh. He heaved Eddie up with one arm and led him up the stairs.

“Oh, I’d just let the Church of Haldane see you first thing in the morning. Between the bed head and the coffee breath they’d all run screaming.”

“Why did I marry you again?”

“Tax advantages,” Eddie yawned. 

Andy gently lowered him down into the bed and started to pry all his traveling clothes off while Eddie gave a rambling account of his drive home. Eddie was beyond speaking coherently, but Andy could grasp the majority of it. He was well versed in Tired Hillbilly.

************

“What do you mean he’s already back,” Ray demanded slamming down a set of ashtrays. “Shit, holmes, we needed those extra days.”

“Grasshopper, you will learn that Edward Jones always comes back at least one day early,” Hoosier said. 

“Damn, Haldane, I didn’t think you were _that_ good in bed,” Ray said.

“Don’t make me fire you, Ray,” Andy said. 

Ray smirked, knowing it was an empty threat. For all his attitude and bullshit, Ray really was a quality Sound guy. Andy didn’t know why the kid wouldn’t take a full time engineering position in one of the studios, but hell, maybe Ray just liked the bar scene. 

“What _are_ you going to do?” Hoosier asked.

“I’ve got a back-up plan,” Andy assured him, “always need to plan for all occasions.”

“Such a Boy Scout,” Hoosier said.

“Eagle Scout,” Andy corrected. He earned that title with pride and poison oak scars. 

“Of course,” Hoosier muttered before turning back to the liquor order. 

They let the sounds of work fill the void of conversation. It wasn’t like working in an office, with beeping fax machines, staplers slamming, and computers humming. Their days were full of the sound of clinking glass and the swoosh of a rag wiping down a table, the shuffle of wooden tables and chairs and the pull of electrical tape. Andy paused in the middle of his inventory to think about what could have been. He could be working in an established law firm, going to work in expensive suits with a Bluetooth attached to his ear, living in Brookline or Beacon Hill. Instead he lived in the Tennessee country side, when to work in old jeans and faded t-shirts, his cell phone often left forgotten on a shelf somewhere. Neither life was easy, but the differences were pretty damn obvious and vast. And he didn’t want to fathom what the hell would’ve happened if he hadn’t picked Knoxville.

“You’re waxing poetic again,” Eddie’s voice murmured into his ear. Eddie’s arms wrapped around his waist and pulled Andy’s cell phone out of his pocket. “How many times do we need to have the discussion about you leaving this on?” he asked.

“At least one more,” Andy admitted. 

“Not in the bar, you two,” Mike chastised them as he walked by, lugging a box of Coca-Cola syrup. 

“You don’t sound surprised to see me,” Eddie said.

Mike laughed. “Hell, Hillbilly, I was expecting you two days ago. You’re late.”

Eddie laughed into Andy’s hair, his breath trailing down his neck, before he pressed a quick kiss to the top of Andy’s head and backed away.

“I better go see how much damage Ray’s done to my amps,” he said.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Andy said.

“I’m glad you’re _here_ ,” Eddie replied.

************

Eddie was out in the backyard when Andy got home, playing tug-a-war with Bocephus. The dog was winning this time, but they were both covered in leaves and mud. The kitchen would be ruined if they got any worse. Andy opened the back door and whistled to bring them both inside. Bocephus beat Eddie back, but it was a close one.

“Which one of you needed to work the energy off?” Andy asked as Eddie toed off his shoes. 

“Me,” Eddie said, “skin’s itching. Something don’t feel right.”

“Maybe Merriell’s grandma really did put a curse on you,” Andy said.

“There he is,” Eddie told Bocephus while pointing at Andy, “the love of my life, wishing my death. My heart of hearts has been betrayed. How am I to live with this scoundrel?”

“Reading your sister’s romance novels again?” Andy asked.

“It had a really interesting cover,” Eddie said.

“Foiled by a man in a kilt were you?” Andy asked.

Eddie shrugged. “It’s a weakness. I have a thing for calf muscles.”

“Ah, and suddenly the real reason for going to all those Highland Games is revealed,” Andy said. He threw Bocephus a handful of dog biscuits as he walked to the fridge. “Any ideas for dinner?”

“Tuna sandwich and tomato soup,” Eddie said.

Andy smiled at him. “I love your simple tastes.”

Eddie nodded as he propped his feet on one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s one of the things that make me the perfect man,.”

Andy chose not to respond to that one. 

Dinner was a quiet affair as they both took the time to unwind. They only one who really made noise was Bocephus and that was because Eddie kept sneaking him bits of his dinner. They sprawled out on the back porch afterwards and Andy decided it was time. 

“So, you know how three years ago we were visiting my parents’ house?” Andy asked.

“And decided to go down to the courthouse and get married, yes, I think I recall such an event,” Eddie said with a wide smile.

“Well, in celebration of that random yet momentous occasion, I’ve decided to surprise you with something,” Andy said.

“Andy, if you’re about to tell me you’re somehow pregnant, I’ve got be honest, that might be a deal breaker.”

Andy laughed. “I think we’ve got more than enough adopted children without me getting magically knocked up. No, as something to mark our non-anniversary anniversary, I, uh, just listen, okay,” he said. He pulled out the guitar from where it was hidden behind the wicker couch.

Eddie sat up intrigued. 

“Don’t laugh,” Andy said.

“When have I ever laughed at you?” Eddie asked, eyes warm.

Andy looked up from tuning the guitar. “About five minutes ago when I tripped over the dog,” he said. 

“But that was funny,” Eddie said. 

“This is serious,” Andy said.

“Okay,” Eddie agreed. He went suddenly serious and straightened up. “What’s this about?”

“I wanted to do something special for you, for us, this being our sort of sixth year anniversary of living together and our third year of being married.”

“No sort of about it,” Eddie said, “I happily remember that night when you stumbled into my musical web.”

“Stop talking to Luz when he’s writing his screenplays,” Andy said.

Eddie laughed and ran a hand through Andy’s hair. “What are you so worked up about?”

“I _really_ suck at this,” Andy said.

Eddie stood up and settled behind him, resting his chin on Andy’s shoulder. “We’ve all got to begin somewhere. Just start,” he said.

Andy took a deep break and began to play. He knew how to play the piano, knew how to do it damn well, and his only hope to get through this was to convert the piano chords to guitar chords in his head. It meant that he played slow, out of time, and very much stuttered, but the melody was still there. _House of the Rising Sun_ was one of the first rock songs he leaned to play on the piano, and now it held the dubious honor of the guitar as well. Eddie hummed the words while he played, his beard scratching into Andy’s neck, as his fingers tapped the rhythm out on Andy’s thighs.

“So that was my great musical debut and retirement performance,” Andy said when he strummed out the very last note.

Eddie clapped. “I am honored to share this moment with you. Though it always hurts my soul to see such a quick rise and hard fall of a new act.”

“I decided to leave it all behind before my looks faded away and all my fans left me for the next young thing.”

“No hope for a comeback tour?”

“I think I’ll leave that to the more talented among us.”

Eddie tugged the guitar out of Andy’s hands and carefully set it to the side. He pulled Andy down into a kiss.

“Thank you, really,” he murmured.

“You’re welcome, really,” Andy replied. “You can laugh now.”

“No need to laugh at something you tried so hard at.”

“Right,” Andy said, “go ahead before you break something.”

Eddie just shook his head and entwined their fingers. “I am so stupidly in love with you, you know that, right?”

Andy nodded, ducking his head, still never quite sure how to properly handle so much honest emotion. Still disbelieving how fucking lucky he was that he’d found Eddie, of all people. 

“I can assure you it’s mutual,” Andy said.

Their tender moment was broken by Bocephus howling at something in the back yard but even that was still, somehow, perfect.


	11. Whatever Comes Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s nothing like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. Title from Keith Urban’s _Raining on Sunday_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated. Sugary domestic fluff.

Rain wasn’t always a good thing in Nashville. There had been one too many floods in recent memory that left the populace wary of any large rainfall amount, especially for people who lived and worked near the Cumberland. On nights like this though, when it was just overcast and drizzling, it was easy to let the tension go.

Hoosier never really liked the rain. The only thing it was good for was sleeping, curled up under the covers in a nice, warm bed. Rain in the winter was worst, freezing to hail, and chilling the bones. He preferred never going out in it, but since he decided to spend his idle days as a working grunt, he’d taken that luxury away from himself.

He called Skinny as he started the hour long drive back home.

“You know how I feel about you driving and talking at the same time,” Skinny answered, “especially when it’s dark and raining.”

“But think of all the money you could make off my death benefits,” Hoosier said.

“I need you alive for when I sell your story to the tabloids,” Skinny said.

Hoosier didn’t bother to hide his smile in the dark of his truck. “You need me to pick anything up?” he asks.

“Nah,” Skinny said, exhaling the word on a tired breath, “just get home whole.”

“I will,” Hoosier said before he hung up the phone.

Jason Aldean’s voice sang low over the radio’s speakers. There weren’t too many cars out on the highway this late, and Hoosier took a sip of his coffee to stay awake. It was damn easy to be lulled, by the open road and surrounding mountains, following the curves of concrete deeper into the country. 

The farther he got from the city, the colder it felt, and he wasn’t surprised to see the light dusting of flakes start to fall. He only hoped the roads weren’t too slick yet. He slowed the truck, hearing Skinny’s familiar lecture about driving conditions and speed limits in his head. 

He pulled up into the driveway, shaking his head as he jumped out of the cab.

“What? You don’t trust me to find my own way to the door?” he asked.

Skinny was on the porch, bare toes wiggling in the cool night air, Butch yapping at his feet. It was hell of a sight to come home to, and one Hoosier couldn’t have imagined ten years ago. 

“Considering you’ve wound up in the bushes more than once, no, I don’t,” Skinny said.

Hoosier just shrugged and joined them on the porch, reaching down to pet Butch’s soft fur.

“Look at you,” Skinny said, dusting the snow off his jacket, “don’t even know when to wear a coat.”

“It was just raining when I left,” Hoosier argued, “you’re lucky I remembered to take a jacket with me.”

“Small blessings,” Skinny muttered, tugging him inside. 

The house was overly warm, Skinny hated the cold and had no problem paying the higher heating bill in the winter. It smelled like pine and oranges, which meant Mable had been by to clean. Minnie was laid out at the foot of the stairs, the mastiff’s body blocking the way.

“What pissed the princess off?” Hoosier asked.

Shifty shrugged. “You know how she feels about vacuum cleaners.”

“She could eat one,” Hoosier muttered, toeing his shoes off.

“You know she only eats that ridiculously overpriced organic dog food you buy for her,” Skinny said as he put Hoosier’s jacket over one of the chairs. 

“Sorry if I want our dogs to live long, healthy lives,” Hoosier bitched. 

“Our dogs eat better than we do,” Skinny muttered. 

Hoosier didn’t argue with that, he knew he spoiled the dogs, but he didn’t really have another hobby. He followed Skinny into the kitchen, leaning against him as they poked through the fridge.

“What are you even doing up?” he asked, resting his chin on Skinny’s shoulder.

It’s not that Hoosier didn’t appreciate the gesture, but it was 3am and Skinny always had morning meetings. 

“I’m taking a personal day,” Skinny said, sniffing at a casserole.

Hoosier straightened up. “What?” he asked.

Skinny continued to rummage through the fridge. “I am taking a personal day tomorrow,” he repeated.

Skinny Sisk didn’t take personal days; it took an Act of Lipton to make him take a vacation and Hoosier had to drug him with Nyquil to take a sick day.

“Are you dying?” Hoosier asked, steadying himself against the counter.

“What?” Skinny asked turning around. 

Hoosier shrugged. 

“Christ, Bill,” Skinny said, “I’m not that bad.”

Hoosier just looked at him.

“I figured,” Skinny said, “since the last time the forecast called for this much rain, I was stranded in downtown Nashville for a week, that I’d stay home this time.” 

“I’m touched,” Hoosier said.

“I don’t want you to burn the house down,” Skinny said. He bumped Hoosier out of the way as he started to make a sandwich. “Besides, the last time I left you alone for a week, you watched QVC for two straight days and bought a fuck ton of shit we didn’t need.”

“And yet we were done with Christmas shopping before October,” Hoosier argued. 

He stole a slice of cheese from the pack and settled down at the table, Butch jumping into his lap. He could get used to this, decompressing from work with Skinny at his side, rather than waking him up when he crawled into bed. They’d both been working overtime through the holiday rush and hadn’t spent more than few hours together in weeks. There was an easy solution to it, Hoosier could quit his job and be a house-husband but he’d probably blow something up out of boredom. Not that Skinny would let him quit, they both needed that time away from each other, with separate lives that just occasionally overlapped.

“Eat,” Skinny ordered, dropping a plate in front of Hoosier before he picked Butch up. “Take a shower before coming to bed.”

“What, no meal side entertainment?” Hoosier asked. 

Skinny yawned in response. 

************

Hoosier woke up around noon to the sound of rain pelting against the windows. It was dark in his bedroom. He turned to his side, surprised to find Skinny still there, sitting up and reading a magazine.

“You’re such a dork,” Hoosier murmured after spying the familiar yellow of _National Geographic_.

“I read it for the pictures,” Skinny said

Hoosier smiled and rolled into Skinny’s side. “At least it’s not snowing,” he said.

“Hmm,” Skinny agreed, hand tangling in Hoosier’s hair. 

“You’re ignoring me,” Hoosier said.

“Half-listening,” Skinny corrected. 

Hoosier laughed, the sound startling Minnie at the foot of the bed, and setting off a whole round of barking between her and Butch.

“And now I’m up,” Hoosier said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“You’re such a child,” Skinny said before he kissed the top of Hoosier’s head. 

“It’s my charm,” Hoosier deadpanned. 

He stretched his arms out and debated getting out of bed. He stuck one foot out on the floor before making up his mind, retreating back under the covers. 

“Now I know why you’re really in bed, it’s fucking cold in this house,” Hoosier said.

Skinny wiggled his sock-covered toes. “I decided to give the heater a break. The last thing I need is for the roads to be washed out and the heater dead. Suck it up, Smith, you’ll live.”

“Why do I put up with you?” Hoosier asked.

“Because I’m attracted to more than just your bank account and since we have to live together anyway, we might as well get laid,” Skinny answered without looking up from his article. The bastard almost sounded bored. 

Hoosier smiled wide, that’s just how he like his Skinny Sisk, dry-witted and bitchy. He rested his head on Skinny’s stomach. “You say the most romantic things to me,” he said.

Skinny tapped him on the head with the top of his magazine. “Go back to sleep,” he ordered.

Hoosier knew better than to disobey the man.


	12. A Player in this Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q-Tip appoints himself Gibson’s Hip Hop tutor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title from 2Pac’s _Unconditional Love_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated. Mostly character background and dialogue as per usual. Timestamp meme request ficlet for .

Evan Stafford, called Q-Tip by his friends, fellow Marine buddies, and current colleagues at Screaming Eagle Publishing, never saw himself working in the music business. That probably explained why he worked security and reception. He just never wanted to be a performer. He liked to rap on his own though, making up lyrics to familiar songs and tunes. It helped him get through Afghanistan and Iraq, where they didn’t have any music. The rap verses were a way to pass time, keep their nerves from getting totally shot, and something to make them feel united. He almost missed it, rolling down the highway under the desert sun, asses practically hanging out of the back of a Humvee. He still rapped on his own while doing work, making copies, and answering phones. He had a lot of time to do so while working the desk at Currahee Studios.

“What’s your song of the day?” Ron Gibson asked, stopping by to pick up a stack of demos.

“I’m going old school with a little _Tricky_ by Run-DMC,” Q-Tip said. He handed over a clipboard. “What’s your favorite rap song, Gibson?” he asked.

Gibson laughed. “Can’t say I have one. I pretty much am a born-and-bred country boy.”

“We need to go about fixing that,” Evan said. 

“I’m always up for private tutoring sessions,” Gibson said.

Q-Tip tired not to gape at his tone. He’d started to learn over the past few months, that Ronnie Gibson was far from the quiet, innocent-looking dude like he acted. Nah, Ronnie had the kind of smile his momma warned him about. He was even more dangerous, since you’d never guess it passing him on the street. 

Q-Tip had started collecting intel on Gibson from day one. Working at the security desk, a lot of gossip passed his way, and Popeye Wynn dropped by at least twice a day to give him new dirt. He liked what he found out and was pretty damn tired of waiting for Gibson to make the first move. 

“I’m free tomorrow,” he said.

Gibson fumbled the clipboard. “Seriously?”

Q-Tip nodded. “You should know this stuff, dog. The big man searches for R&B and Hip Hop acts, right? Don’t you have to follow those acts around? Need to know a thing or two about the genre.”

“I’m more in charge of the folk and alternative country acts,” Gibson said. 

“Career advancement means expanding your horizons, don’t it?” 

Gibson studied him, obviously trying to make sure Q-Tip was being on the level. He wasn’t insulted, nothing wrong with being cautious this day and age. He still tried to give his best innocent smile. 

Gibson rolled his eyes in response.

“I’ll meet you here at 6:00pm,” he said.

Q-Tip nodded. “We’ll get you rapping like a MC in no time.”

**************

Q-Tip had pretty much gorged himself on Mrs. Gibson’s homemade coconut and chocolate-chip cookies. He wasn’t used to arguing the finer points of musical composition with a graduate from Berklee College of Music with a baked-good food baby in his stomach, but hell, life was about change.

“Look, man,” he said, pointing to the stacks of Gibson’s old textbooks, “I know I don’t exactly appear as a connoisseur of the classical, but that don’t mean shit. It’s all about expectations. In the Marines, among all my boys, I had to be Q-Tip 100% of the time. Here though, outside of ballsweat smelling fatigues and away from artie? I get to be Evan, with a side of Q-Tip. That’s just how it works.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Gibson joked.

Q-Tip laughed. “You could say that.”

Gibson nodded. “We’re all like that too, you know. Not just the typical difference of who you are at work does not equal who you are at home. The music business pretty much forces all of us to put up a front. It’s the only way to survive dealing with all that ego, money and talent. Hell, even Lip doesn’t want this real name or persona attached to half the bullshit that goes down.”

Lip aka Lipton Marshall aka C.C. Winters. Q-Tip didn’t know how the hell the man got through a day without a massive headache from all his various identities.

Gibson picked through the stacks of cds and vinyl Q-Tip had dumped on the table. He waved the case of 2Pac’s _All Eyez On Me_

“So, tell me about it. Tell me why you love his music so much.”

It was an easy question to answer, but not without giving his life story. 2Pac was one of those artists he heard right when he needed it. It made things easier, back in Tampa, hearing someone else out there rapping about the world going to hell, but struggling through with head held high. It wasn’t idealized and Evan Stafford, full of anger and frustration like any teenager, really appreciated the sentiment. 

“Because he knew there was a difference between 2Pac and Tupac Shakur. Yeah, he’d give us songs about fucking around, asses shaking, but then there was some honest as hell social commentary, like _Keep Ya Head Up_ and _Brenda’s Got a Baby_. Hell, I learned more from _Words of Wisdom_ than I did my current events class. On one hand he perpetuated Thug Life but on the other he warned against it. There was a balance, on every single one of his records. It wasn’t just, brags and bullshit about cars, clothes, and pussy.”

“It’s more than that,” Gibson said.

Q-Tip nodded. “It wasn’t really happy home in my trailer park. I identified with some of it, especially the need to break the cycle, you know.”

“You joined the Marines to get out.”

“Didn’t you know we’re the Disposable Generation, dog? No hope to be found in our ranks.”

Q-Tip knew Gibson didn’t get it. He was his parents’ pride-and-joy, a full-ride scholarship kid to Berklee College in Boston. He’d excelled there and come back home to start right away to a job at a record company. Not that his life was perfect, no one’s was, but there was a difference between living paycheck-to-paycheck versus life far below the poverty line. Q-Tip knew what it was like; doing everything the family could to make the food stamps last to the end of the month, trying to scrounge up the change for milk when there was no money left. It fucking sucked and made anything, even hooking up with the drug cartels throughout Florida, seem like a damn good idea.

Q-Tip did trade in poverty for a gun, the only difference was his came with a uniform and USMC tattooed on his soul. 

He dug his copy of _Me Against the World_ out of the stack.

“You’re not quite ready for _All Eyez on Me Yet_. We’ll start you with this one and some of the mainstreamers. Get you some Run-DMC, some Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, a little advanced course in Public Enemy and KRS-One, maybe some Eric B & Rakim, a little Kurtis Blow, maybe some MC Lyte and throw in a little Beastie Boys and you’ll be all good for the starter course.”

“I only know, like, half of those bands.”

Q-Tip shook his head and couldn’t help the _screwby_ that slipped out. Old habits die hard and all that bullshit.

“You know LL Cool J though?”

Gibson nodded earnestly. 

“Then maybe we should start with Krush Groove.” Q-Tip pulled the dvd out of the stacks. “Visual learning, man, can’t fault it.”

He probably should’ve bothered explaining the difference between Hip Hop and Rap, but if Gibson could hum _The Breaks_ by the end of the week, he’d count it as a successful mission. 

*************

“It helps if I think about it like poetry, the rhyme and meter,” Gibson said. 

Q-Tip nodded in agreement as he wolfed down his salad. Nothing made him appreciate fresh vegetables more than a desert war zone. 

It was odd to be eating inside the lunch room with everyone else, but Gibson had made the invite sound more like an order, so he figured it was best to show. If only to stop Runner Conley and Popeye from glaring daggers at him. He wasn’t expecting an audience for their lunch meeting, but since Team Shorty plus Shifty had decided to stake out a corner of the room to watch them, Q-Tip knew this was more than about a discussion of the differences and similarities of Rap and Hip Hop. 

They’d made a lot of progress on Gibson’s lessons over the past two weeks. He now knew all the words to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s _The Message_ and that wasn’t something to scoff at with lines like _can't stop to turn around, broke my sacroiliac_. Gibson wouldn’t ever love the genre, but he was learning its history and to appreciate its art. Considering what Lip wanted to do with the label, it was pretty essential for him. Q-Tip didn’t know how the hell he had faked it up to this point; Runner probably helped if the stories around the office from his time in NYC had an ounce of truth to them. 

Q-Tip cocked his head to the side. “Hey, Ron, what’s with Team Eavesdrop over there?”

Gibson ducked his head and his cheeks started to flush red. 

“They just need to get a _life_ ,” he said, voice rising on the last word. 

“Hey, hey, we just want to make sure you’re staying safe,” Popeye said.

“Evan is not dangerous,” Gibson said.

“It’s Q-Tip we’re worried _for_ ,” Runner said, wriggling his eyebrows.

Q-Tip laughed when Gibson hit Runner right between the brows with a fry. 

“If you start a food fight, you’re cleaning it up yourself,” Shifty said. “And before you ask, Runner, I will not give Skinny an excuse for why you don’t have his demos sorted.”

“This is why normal people don’t eat lunch with their bosses,” Runner told Popeye.

Popeye shrugged. “Burgie said I had to socialize him. He doesn’t want Shifty sitting at his desk all day.”

“Ignore them,” Gibson said, “it’s better for your sanity.”

Q-Tip smiled. “They’re your boys, right?”

Gibson nodded.

“Then I better get used to them.”

Q-Tip had no qualms about moving this along. He got that this was still Tennessee and it was better to be pretty damn sure about these things, but it wasn’t like either one of them was hiding. 

Gibson almost choked on his roast beef. 

“So, where do you guys go after work? I’ve been to a few of the clubs around here, but I need a good place to chill.”

Gibson was still sputtering, so Runner answered.

“ _Allison’s_. Penk’ll give you a ride there tonight. Ron and I have to go in early.” He turned to Shifty. “We cleared it with Lip last week. We’re helping Andy set-up for the showcase.”

Shifty just nodded.

“So, it’s a date,” Q-Tip said turning back to Gibson.

Gibson, busy gulping down his water, just gave him the finger.

Q-Tip smiled in response. This was going to be fun.


	13. Not Everyone Can Be Freddie Mercury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronnie Gibson’s life undergoes some massive change over a half-year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from Frank Turner’s _Eulogy_.
> 
> **A/N:** Unbeated. Mostly character background and dialogue as per usual. Meme request ficlet for .

**_Not Everyone Can Be Freddie Mercury_ **

Ronnie Gibson had a love-hate relationship with his work place. He loved working in the music business, writing songs and going through demos of new talent. There was nothing like turning on the radio and hearing a song you spent hours creating, engineering, and perfecting. He just hated not having total control of the product. Lip was great as a boss, had more real business experience as a performer than any of them, but sometimes he didn’t make the best decisions to grow an artist. He almost refused to sign anyone from the Alternative Country scene, preferring to go toward folk artists instead. It was the one concession he made to their location, since most of the label was full of rap, hip hop, and pop acts. It just felt a little pointless, to work in Nashville and not, at the very least, work with bluegrass artists.

“You should just start your own label,” Runner told him, each day, over lunch.

Runner Conley was one of the first people Gibson met when he came back to Nashville. They both started out as new interns for Screaming Eagle Publishing. They’d been stuck with each other ever since, not that it was a hardship to hang out with Runner, even after their short foray into friend-with-benefits territory. Runner was still one of the only people he really connected with at the company. Ronnie worked with discovering talent, while Runner was more focused on development, but they both made time out for lunch and nights at _Allison’s_.

“If I had the start-up capital, I would,” he admitted. “Unless I get bumped up to something like album producer that’s not going to happen.”

“It might,” Runner said. “Shifty’s been talking about re-structuring and some shit about business models.”

“I thought he meant just hiring security personnel to run the front desk to keep the stalkers out.”

“That’s not what Burgie said.”

“Burgie’s only a songwriter.”

“Who spends a good portion of his time writing in the hallway outside Shifty’s office.” Runner speared one of the peaches on his plate. “I’m just saying, it’s possible that an opportunity will open up and it’s not going to be for me.”

“It might,” he said.

“Ronnie, I worked in a diner before coming here. You went to Berklee and organized music festivals in Cambridge, not even the same level.”

“You do the psychologist work so well.”

“Fuck you,” Runner said. 

“Already did,” Ronnie replied. He tried not to laugh at Runner’s blush. Boston had definitely taught him more than just how to write a symphony and produce a pop song.

“It’s always the quiet ones who prey on the innocent and vulnerable.”

“You mean the drunk and horny?”

Runner snorted. “I was trying to be classy.”

“Keep trying.”

Runner threw a balled-up napkin at his head.

“Boys, please don’t burden the cleaning staff with a food fight again,” Lip said as he made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Yes, Mr. Winters,” they replied in unison.

Lip shook his head with an amused smile. It had to pretty damn confusing, using two names professionally but only one personally. Technically speaking they were paid by C.C. Winters/Screaming Eagle Publishing/Currahee Studios, depending on the project, but Carwood Lipton was the man behind all those personas. 

He just never reminded Ronnie of a pop star. He was like a school teacher, not a guy who once rubbed elbows with Axl and Slash. 

“Word around the building is that we’re getting some new people,” Runner said.

Lip nodded. “We need a strong staff at the front desk, who can handle people without automatically getting violent. It’s never been my policy to have obvious security forces and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Do they have placement agencies for that kind of work?” Runner asked.

Lip smiled. “You’d be surprised, Conley. You boys don’t stay down here too long; Skinny’s coming back today with a case full of demos.”

“We’ll be back to work soon, Lip,” Runner said.

“Can’t keep the talent waiting,” he agreed. 

Runner waited until Lip left before going back to his new favorite topic.

“I’m serious about the label thing. This label is missing out on a huge chunk of the market. Besides, you’re damn good at sensing talent.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Ronnie said. 

It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Runner got promoted to a major A&R position soon. Ron could usually feel out an act through their demos and performances but Runner, he knew how to _develop_ them. He also didn’t have the kind of hang-ups Ronnie did. Runner didn’t go to college with a bunch of kids struggling to make it in the music business; he didn’t feel the need to waste time on an act that would never transition well to a life of touring and the stage. Runner could, and was, ruthless in a way Ronnie admired. 

“I just don’t want you wasting away in your cubicle here,” Runner said. “Promise me you’ll _actually_ think about it and not just do that bullshit placating thing your mother taught you.”

“I’ll think about it,” he dutifully answered. 

It was a fool’s dream, but hell, maybe one day when he was old and grey he’d at the very least have his own song publishing group.

***************

Skinny Sisk was tasked with traveling around the country in order to find new songwriters and studio musicians. Occasionally he’d stumble across a new act that needed label support and he’d ask Lip to make the connection. 

That was his official job, anyway. Unofficially he apparently kept Hoosier Smith, former band mate of Lip and current bartender, from killing himself with a fork. It had to be true love because Ronnie honestly didn’t know how anyone could put up with Hoosier on a regular basis and not try to kill him. 

“I brought you a gift,” Skinny said, dropping a box on his desk. He smelled like cinnamon.

“Trying to quit again?” he asked.

Skinny nodded with a self-deprecating smile. His attempts to quit smoking were turning into office legend. Just when he seemed to finally ease off the addiction, Hoosier always did something monumentally stupid and Skinny was right back to a pack-a-day habit. 

“I brought you some Americana and Bluegrass acts this time.”

Ron sighed. “Lip won’t like that.”

“Talk to him about it, convince him.”

“You talked to Runner, didn’t you? Stopped and saw him first. I’m insulted.”

Skinny shrugged. “He has the expensive mints and I had garlic for lunch. Either way, it doesn’t change my argument.”

He fiddled with one of the paperclips on his desk. It was something he desperately wanted but he refused to bother Lip.

“I’m not exactly the persuasive type.”

“Not according to Runner,” Skinny said. He wriggled his eyebrows and obnoxiously popped his gum. “Always the quiet ones.”

Ron glared up at him. “You’re not funny.”

“I am comedic gold. I also have faith in you.”

“It’s nice to know someone does.”

“We all do, Shifty certainly does or I wouldn’t be here. Just, talk to Lip. He doesn’t get it all the time, Mr. Rock Star, and that just because it’s _Nashville_ doesn’t mean he can’t help Country and Bluegrass acts. Besides Sugar Hill and a handful of others, no company is going up to bat for these guys. They can’t all be Chris Thile, stupidly talented and doing Hollywood’s musical scores for the hell of it.”

Ron nodded in agreement. A lot of assumptions were made about Nashville. There was a system here, the machine, that had a way of producing songs and artists to make money. They’d found a way to make multiple acts crossover successes. The machine, however, didn’t always lend itself to an artist’s individual creative abilities. Trusted song writers and producers were used for a guaranteed money return. The way the business was going, major companies weren’t exactly clamoring for the next new thing; they weren’t looking for risks. 

It was just hard to remember that a few years ago, signing a young girl like Taylor Swift and letting her write her songs was a major risk. That turned out ridiculously well for her company, but it wasn’t a guarantee. It was about timing and image as much as talent. 

Right now at least the critics were on their side. Many reviewers were looking at Alt Country and seeing what they liked. The acts were becoming darlings, an almost new Southern Rock invasion on the airwaves. Bluegrass though, it was always more of a risk. Outside of themed music soundtracks and albums, it didn’t get much crossover or mainstream attention. 

“Gibson, come back to the planet,” Skinny said.

He shook his head. “You honestly think Lip would listen?”

Skinny shrugged. He leaned over him and grabbed one of the lollipops out of the jar. “I say it wouldn’t hurt to gather your buddies in the war room and come up with a presentation.”

“Won’t that piss off the marketing crew?”

Skinny laughed. “Dirty Earl and Stella? Please. Those two have to be forced into the conference room at gunpoint.”

Skinny flicked his ear. “Just think about it, Gibson. All Lipton can do is say no. He’ll think about, he always does, but you make a good argument, support it with evidence, you’ll be golden. I just suggest you make friends with O’Keefe and Hamm in financials. You need to prove that your suggestion won’t bankrupt the business.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Skinny.”

Skinny gave him a thumbs-up as he walked towards the elevator. 

Ron laughed at the very idea of it all. It would be his dream to head a division of his favorite genres, but it was a dream. He fished into the box Skinny dropped off and started to sort through the demos.

***************

Ronnie was browsing online blogs and MySpace for any potential new artists when Runner rolled over to his desk.

“Didn’t Shifty warn you that he wouldn’t replace the next chair you broke?”

Runner shrugged. “Popeye and I aren’t racing them down the halls anymore. At least not when the building’s full. Come on, surprise meeting.”

“What?” he said while clicking to his e-mail. There was nothing there or on the company wide internet chat service.

“Shifty figured I could collect you, he called down.” 

Ronnie studied Runner, trying to figure if he was upfront or bullshitting. He’d been randomly kidnapped by him on more than one occasion.

Runner put a hand over his heart. “Telling the truth, Scout’s Honor.”

“You were never a Boy Scout.”

“Only because I didn’t want to sell popcorn that tastes like wallpaper paste. Come on, can’t you see everyone else wandering out of their offices. You don’t want us to be late. Lip will get that disappointed look.”

“Fine,” he said as he pushed himself up. “If you lied, I _will_ shave your head this time.”

“You’d have to reach it first.”

“If I recall it correctly, you were the one who feel down on his knees first.”

Runner’s face turned bright red. Ronnie didn’t even bother to stop the grin from overtaking his face. 

“Come on, boys,” Popeye said. “Meeting time.”

The conference room was crowded, every available seat, including the window sills and edges of tables were occupied. Screaming Eagle Publishing and Currahee Studios wasn’t a large staff, but it was still a claustrophobic nightmare fitting them all in the room. Every last employee on the day shift, cleaning staff and receptionists included. 

“What the hell?” Runner asked.

Ronnie shrugged and craned his neck to see the front of the room. Smokey Gordon was there, holding court with Shifty and Stone, from Legal. 

“Mr. Winters needs to speak, everyone shut the hell up,” Smokey said. 

“Language, Smokey,” Lip said. He walked into the conference room with a lanky young man trailing behind him. He held himself like Shifty, never a moment away from a quick reaction.

“I hope everyone’s enjoying their day so far,” he said, smiling. He made sure to make eye contact in each direction of the room. Lip was good at that, ordering them all to attention without being a jackass about it. 

“It’d be better if the coffee machine on the studio level worked,” Joe Liebgott, one of the sound engineers said.

“We’ve already order a new machine,” Shifty said. “I suggest you boys stop trying to slap it into submission. This is the fifth replacement in three months.”

“Make one that keeps up with demand,” Lieb said.

“Either deal with it or learn to love water,” Stone said.

Lip held up his hands before the conference room saw Stone vs. Liebgott, Round 75. 

“Relax, boys. Shifty will get it all sorted.”

Shifty quietly nodded in agreement.

Lip beckoned the new guy forward. “Now that we’ve got the daily complaint out of the way. Staff, I’d like you to meet our newest member of security, Evan Stafford.”

Stafford waved his hand. His smile was welcoming, even if his clothes looked more like a street punk kid. Or your typical suburban boy trying to act like he came from the inner-city.

“We be pimpin',” Runner muttered under his breath.

Ronnie poked him in the side. “Didn’t you used to wear a Day-Glo jacket and hammer-pants? Was that before or after your Hawaiian shirt phase?”

“Didn’t you wear overalls at least once a week until college?”

“They’re comfortable.”

“Okay, Opie.”

“Something to share, boys?” Lip asked.

“Only reminiscing about past fashion tragedies, Sir,” Runner said.

Lip smirked. “At least yours don’t get a constant replay on VH1 Classic.” He gripped Evan’s shoulder. “Evan here is going to be at the receptionist desk on second shift. I know everyone with this company will help him settle in and show him the ropes.”

His words faded into the background as Ronnie closely studied the new employee. He seemed like a nice guy, all quirked lips and small smiles, head nodding humbly to the compliments Lip doled out. There was just a presence about him and Ronnie was definitely interested.

***************

Two weeks later Ron was trying to will his hangover away through the power of water and caffeine. He made the mistake of talking numbers with the Accounting guys over beers at _Allison’s_. He’d woken up on Andy Haldane’s couch with Eddie Jones hovering over him, aspirin bottle in hand and a sympathetic look on his face.

“Hoosier said you and Hamm started doing the can-can at one point,” Runner said in between monstrously loud bites of his apple. “Don’t break little Hamm’s heart, Gibson, he’s such a sweet boy.”

“Who can throw down shots like they’re water.”

Runner patted his shoulder. “You’re not that young anymore, you shouldn’t try to keep up with the kiddies.”

“Yeah, well, the _kiddies_ are the ones I need to do off-the-books number wizardry.”

“You’re going to approach Lip?” 

Ronnie nodded and then groaned as his head throbbed. “At the very least I plan to appeal to his need to mother everyone. All the young kids just arriving in town, ready to sign deals with the devil just for a piece of musical immortality, doesn’t Lip want to help save them?”

Runner snorted. “Good luck with that, Gibson.”

“I expect you to help write the proposal and the presentation.”

“Stupid people say what?”

Ronnie glared at him. “ _You’re_ the one who keeps pushing me to do this. _You’re_ the one who talked to Skinny about it, and you _know_ he never lets shit go. You are helping me.”

“Didn’t your fancy college teach you how to bribe music executives?”

“Wilbur,” he said.

Runner cringed at the sound of his real name. “Does your mother know how truly evil you are? Fucking fine. I’ll do it.”

**************

Evan drove a red pick-up, always with the windows down and music blaring from the speakers. You could both see and hear him coming from a mile away. His shift started at 2:00pm and without fail, come 1:55pm, Ronnie could see him pulling into the parking lot.

He wasn’t obsessed or anything, it was just one of the highlights of his day to see Evan. They were almost starting to become friends, sharing a similar taste in movies and making tentative plans to drive to Memphis for the barbeque. 

It was difficult starting out at Currahee Studios and Screaming Eagle Publishing as a new kid. Everyone was so close knit, it truly was a family, and when you came in alone, it was hard not to feel like an outsider. Ronnie still thanked god every day that he and Runner started in the same week. He didn’t know if he would’ve succeeded without having someone else there along the way. Evan seemed to be handling it well so far, he was just an easy person to _like_.

Ronnie wanted _more_ than just friendship with Evan. He could feel the start of something there, a deeper connection, he just didn’t know what the hell to about it. With Runner it had been easy. From their first meeting there was a connection and even though it never went beyond friends with benefits, Ron was just glad to have him in his life. Runner had a way with people, he always put them at ease. As nice as Evan was, there was still something dark lurking there, behind the smiles and quips. 

It made a lot of sense, really, that of the people Evan talked to, Shifty was at the top of that list. Everyone knew Shifty’s past as an Army Ranger, it came up at least once a day in the lunch room. It was difficult for the new hires to fathom how someone as quiet as Shifty spent six years as a sniper, but they soon learned the difference. Shifty was quiet, humble, and ruthless when the situation called for it. Evan must’ve known a thing or two about that, having served with the Marines.

“Do you have that demo Skinny brought up from Baton Rouge?”

“What?” Ronnie asked, shaking his head and turning to Runner.

Runner stood up on his tip toes and looked out the window.

“Ahh, Q-Tip’s arrived. No wonder you’ve been over here breathing all heavy.”

Ronnie threw his stress ball at Runner’s head.

Runner laughed and held up his hands in surrender.

“God, will you just ask the guy out for a cup of coffee,” he said.

“I don’t think he drinks coffee.”

“He’s a marine; he has more coffee than oxygen in his blood.”

“Non-active,” Gibson corrected, “and god, Runner, I’m not that guy.”

“What, you only make a move when you’re drunk?”

“Or really, really sure.”

A soft look came over Runner’s face. His eyes were kind and understanding. Those eyes, they were the first things that drew Ron in, followed by the wide smile and wry humor. Runner would always be special to him, but they both deserved something more.

“Ronnie, he’s not going to say no,” Runner said. “Once anyone gets to know you, it’s pretty damn hard to say no.”

“Yeah?”

Runner nodded. “Trust me. I don’t just stick around for your momma’s casseroles.”

Ronnie shook his head and laughed. “You always know what to say.”

“It’s a gift. Now, that demo?”

“Right.” He dug it out of his desk, handing it over with caution. “I _really_ like this guy, Runner. Do not lose that demo. A friend made it for him and rumor has it he sends most A &R guys running away screaming. He’s going to be a hard sell to Lip, but there is some raw talent there.”

“Country?” Runner asked. 

“Zydeco folk. If there is such a thing.”

“A genre-bender, always interesting.” 

It wasn’t often that labels went outside their local pool of musicians to offer deals, but Skinny was used to traveling. He’d follow up with his contacts garnered years ago from his 3B days to find anyone around the South who’d fit in with Screaming Eagle. Skinny collected names and demos, handing them off to Ronnie and Runner to sort through and make the tough decisions. It was hard as hell sometimes to make a decision when there was a damn talented musician they’d have to pass on because they wouldn’t fit with the label. It meant that occasionally they’d supply names to their competing A&R reps, but always with the understanding that it went both ways.

It just took part of Ronnie’s soul each time he had to pass on an artist or band he _knew_ in his gut would be a star, but were too country for Lip.

“We really need to work on that presentation,” Ronnie said.

Runner nodded. “Swing by my place tonight. I have to go see the afternoon open mic set at _Allison’s_ , but after that I’m free.” He gave a small wave before wandering back over to his side of the office.

Ronnie turned back to his computer and started editing his speech for Lip once again. They needed to do this, the label _had_ to diversify to stay relevant. All the genres were blending together these days and it made no sense for them to be where they were and stick so close to a single vision. Lip was old school in that way, but his label was basically as large as indie got. If he didn’t want to branch out under the main name, maybe, just maybe, he’d agree with a smaller imprint label.

***************

Runner lived in a small house just outside of Nashville. His yard was easily twice the size of his home, and he was the only person Ronnie knew who _liked_ mowing his lawn. Apparently a childhood spent in center city Buffalo and teen years in NYC meant an unhealthy obsession with a yard and various horticulture projects. It was dangerous to let Runner go into the gardening section at _The Home Depot_ unsupervised. 

“Anyone interesting at _Allison’s_?” he asked, gladly taking the beer Runner offered.

“Some new kid named John Julian. Not one for star quality but a hell of a guitar player. He’d be a great studio musician but his stage presence is lacking.”

“Where’s he from?”

“Alabama. Came up here to study at Belmont.”

“Good Christian boy then.”

“Behave,” Runner chided. 

He settled down besides Ronnie on the couch. “I’m going to talk to Poke and his boys in the studio. They’ve been bitching about needing a couple of interns. At the very least I can give the kid an in to the life. Let him see if he’s really made for it.”

Ronnie nodded and leaned back into the far too comfortable couch. It’d been a long day, a long couple of weeks with the stress of getting the proposal ready, and it felt great to be at Runner’s, where no artifice or expectations were needed. 

He closed his eyes and relaxed. He could hear Runner flipping through the written proposal. There was a click of a pen and the sound of it scratching paper. Gibson’s nose wrinkled as the smell of the ink wafted over. He took another deep breath and tried not to think about how badly this could all go. Shifty promised him a meeting next Thursday. The internal-geek was trying not to think about the world ending on Thursdays. He didn’t think Lip would appreciate it if Ronnie spent all his time pre-meeting muttering _don’t panic_ under his breath. 

“You might just convince him. I mean, it’s Lip, he’ll stew about it for a day or two, but hell, this is good, Ronnie.”

“Thanks, Runner.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “C’mere.”

Runner smirked. “You sure about this?” he asked, palming the back of Ronnie’s neck.

“Once more for old time’s sake?”

Runner was a familiar weight over him, a remembered taste on his tongue. This was a distraction for the both of them, he knew, a safe person and a safe place. They couldn’t keep doing this; they didn’t and wouldn’t work as a couple, but right now was not the time to turn away. 

He reached a hand up, giving Runner’s hair a slight tug, smiling at the soft groan. 

This would very likely be the last time and Ronnie was going to savor it.

***************

“I’m going to puke,” Ronnie said. 

“Try not to do it all over the reception desk,” Evan said. He handed over a paper cup of water. “Drink that.”

Ronnie did as ordered.

“What kind of special evil does it take to make someone wait until the afternoon for a major meeting?” 

“Don’t hyperventilate,” Evan said. He stood up, towering over Ronnie and patted him on his shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“Right, of course,” Ronnie said.

The ding of the elevator made him look across the lobby. Runner and Popeye came barreling out the door, presentation boards in their hands.

“Oh, thank you Jesus,” Ronnie said.

“Rumor had it you were down here having a breakdown,” Popeye said. 

“I _told_ you we’d get it done in time,” Runner said.

“The meeting is in fifteen minutes,” Ronnie said.

“You boys better get your asses upstairs then and set up,” Evan said. He pulled out a shopping bag from the desk. “Penk and I got you a veggie tray.”

“Oh, thanks guys,” Ronnie said.

Evan smiled while Penk just nodded his head. 

“Upstairs, Gibson,” Popeye ordered. 

Ronnie paced back and forth going over his speech while Runner, Popeye, and half their floor helped organize things. Rumor had spread fast over his proposal and it felt kind of silly having the meeting now when Lip, Stone, Smokey, and Shifty had to know everything. 

Secrets didn’t last long in this company. 

“You’ll be fine,” Lieb said, slapping him on the back so hard he actually stumbled forward.

“Thank you,” he gritted out between his clenched jaw.

“Just remember to lead with the cost-effective analysis,” O’Keefe said, leaning over to adjust Ronnie’s tie. “And remember to appeal to Lip’s sense of competition and fairness.”

“And for Christ’s sake, don’t puke on anyone,” Popeye said.

“Aim for the fern, at least,” Hamm said.

“Thank you, guys, really, for everything.”

“Couldn’t leave you to do this on your own,” Gwen said. She brushed off any lint from his suit and adjusted his collar. “Don’t you look professional.”

“Thanks for taking me shopping, Gwen.”

“It’s what us image consultants do.”

“Okay, everyone out,” Runner said. “I don’t think the meeting will start off well if Lip’s left wondering why no one is at their desk.”

“Oh, but you’re staying here?” Lieb asked.

“I’m moral support and a contributor to the project. Go back to your studio, Lieb, and leave the upper levels for those of us who bask in daylight.”

Popeye forcibly shoved everyone out of the room who wouldn’t leave. The only ones left were Hamm, to back up the financials; Burgie, to show that they already had people with country experience on staff; and Popeye and Runner for support. 

He tried to remember to breathe as Lip, Shifty, Smokey, and Stone came inside and took their seats. Greetings were passed around and Ronnie waited until everyone had poured themselves a drink and enjoyed some of the veggie tray before he started. 

He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the ringing in his ears. He knew his face had to be beet red, but as long as he kept his voice steady he could get through this. He believed in this project and most importantly, he believed in Lip.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “as you know at Screaming Eagle Publishing we specialize in promoting the work of talent in rap, hip hop, pop, and alternative rock. We’ve begun the expansion of our brand by signing some folk musicians in the past year and so far we’ve already seen returns on this new investment. I am proposing another movement for our brand and label. I think that, considering our city and geographical location, it would only be logical to tap the wealth of musicians in the bluegrass, country, alternative country, and other Americana genres. I believe our people here and our label’s goals in general could greatly benefit from this whole new pool of talent. If you would open your files, the first page contains a projection of profit if we decided to follow through with this idea.”

Ronnie continued on, glad that so far everyone was still smiling.

***************

It had been one hell of a nerve-wracking week for Ronnie as he waited Lip’s reply. The meeting had gone well; full of discussion, and no out right signs of an obvious refusal. Things had been quiet and even Popeye, with all his connections, didn’t know jack about the decision. Evan and Penk both admitted that some of the big-wig lawyers had been by, Buck Compton even flying in from L.A., but that could mean anything. They could be hiring a major act or trying to build a studio out in California. 

“Hey, Gibson,” Skinny said, dropping a stack of demos on his desk, “Lip wants to see you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just dropped Hoosier off at his office. He asked me to come get you.”

“Hoosier is awake before noon?”

Skinny laughed. “He promised to work with Poke’s newest protégé. So, let’s go.”

“This will probably end badly,” Ronnie admitted.

Skinny threw an arm around his shoulder. “Have faith in yourself, Gibson.”

The ride up to Lip’s office was terrifying it a way it never had been before. He couldn’t help but crack his knuckles, nervous habits and all.

Hoosier met them in the doorway. He was dressed in his typical black shirt and jeans, looking like such a stereotypical former rock star it was laughable. Especially since he spent his formative years dancing to pop tracks in neon orange. It was hard to believe Hoosier had ever been a in a boy band. He was too damn cynical for it.

“Good luck, Gibson,” he said. 

Ronnie didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing for someone like Hoosier to be wishing him luck.

Lip was on the phone but gestured for him to sit down. He was in a good mood, at least. Lip got all serious and stone faced when he had to deliver bad news. He was probably just softening the blow though. 

He hung up the phone and slid an envelope across the desk.

“I’ve got a proposal for you,” Lip said.

“Okay.”

“You’re right, we do need to dedicate ourselves more to artist development and we shouldn’t ignore large parts of the local talent pool because I want to give other genres a chance to flourish here. I’ve helped start up more than a few indie labels in the area, and now I want to start up one more.

I consider your years of employment here and your success as proof enough that you won’t squander my money. Still, it takes a lot of work, money, and time to start a label up. You’ll still need a day-job; I’m not quite ready to let you go yet.”

Ronnie took the envelope and opened it up to see a draft of a contract for an imprint label.

“Lip, I don’t even know what to say.”

“The business lawyers will look over the contracts, but Gibson, you’re right. That Louisiana kid you mentioned, Shelton? He’s got some talent and we can’t just let him slip through because it’s a genre I’ve never pursued.”

“I, this, is this real?”

Lip burst out laughing.

“Ronnie, you have a good gut instinct for this business and you’re willing to take calculated risks. We need that, with the way it’s going now. The old model doesn’t work. Labels aren’t guaranteed money makers anymore and we’re all lucky to be staying in the black. We stick with the business because we love it, and you know that. You’re well aware that nothing about this, starting up an imprint label, finding and discovering talent on your own, working towards artist development, it’s hard work that will take up all your time.”

“Lip, Jesus, just thank you.”

“You won’t be thanking me when you’ve just worked the better half of seventy-two straight hours trying to prepare your talent for an album drop.”

Lip held his hand out. “Glad to do business with you Mr. Gibson.”

He took his hand, trying to stop his own from shaking. “Always a pleasure.”

***************

Two months later Runner joined him for lunch at _The Acropolis_ to discuss work both for Screaming Eagle and their own as-yet-unnamed label. They both stopped in the middle of their meal when Evan walked through the door.

“When will you just ask him out for a real date?” Runner asked, leaning his weight on Ronnie’s shoulder. 

“I don’t want him to punch my face in.”

“He does not seem like that kind of guy,” Runner said. He stood up.

“Don’t you dare,” Ronnie hissed.

“Evan, come join us,” Runner yelled across the room.

“Hey guys,” Evan said. He had a gyro in one hand in a drink in the other. “Didn’t know you two liked Greek food.”

“We try to limit ourselves to one very large monthly indulgence,” Runner said.

Evan laughed. “I feel that.” He took the seat next to Ronnie. “Rumor has it you’re the head of Screaming Eagles newest imprint label. Got a name yet?"

“Thinking about it,” Ronnie said. “I want to work with some beach country acts so I might play on that theme.”

“You’re joining the label, too?” Evan asked Runner.

Runner nodded. “I’m on board as A&R. Other than that, we’ve got one act in Snafu Shelton.”

“Got to start somewhere,” Evan said.

“Truer words never spoken,” Runner said. He pulled out his cell phone. “Well, would you like at that, Lieb needs me in the studio.” 

Ronnie glared daggers at him but Runner only smiled peacefully in response. The little shit knew they’d taken Runner’s car here, so Ronnie would have no choice but to ask Evan for a ride back to work. 

“You okay?” Evan asked.

Ronnie nodded. “Just wondering why all my friends are devious little bastards.”

“You’re just lucky I guess.”

Ronnie laughed. “You know what, Evan? I really, truly am.”

Evan gave him a blinding smile in response before turning back to his lunch.

When Ronnie Gibson came back to Nashville from Berklee he wasn’t expecting any of this but hell, he had no reason to complain. Not anymore. New things were beginning and they all felt right and good. Perfect, just like it should be.


	14. Five Seconds to Spare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoosier tells Runner a thing or two about his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from The Smith’s _Half A Person_.
> 
>  **A/N:** Unbeated. Character background. Ray assaulting bar stools. The norm.

**_Five Seconds to Spare_ **

Hoosier leaned against _Allison’s_ bar enjoying the show.

“Does he have any idea what he’s singing?” Runner asked, sliding up next to him.

Ray Person, their sound tech and jack of all trades, was dancing around the empty bar performing a truly inspired rendition of Rihanna’s _Rude Boy_. 

“From the way he’s violating that bar stool, I’d say yes,” Hoosier observed. He had to give Person some credit; he hadn’t seen ass shaking like that since the mid-90s. 

“I’m starting to see why his band tanked,” Runner said.

“Eh, Ray just needed to find his calling. Clearly rap-rock was not his destiny. You can try to fight the pull of pop music, but it will always get you.”

“Yeah,” Runner said, “about that.”

Hoosier raised an eyebrow. “You mean Skinny, in all his years of trading bullshit with you, never let slide how I joined a boy band?”

He nodded. “It may have escaped you, but Skinny’s a little protective and territorial when it comes to you, your history, and anything that might bother you.”

“So the only reason you’re asking now is because he’s not here.”

Runner took a swig of his beer before answering. “I’m not too proud to admit I’m a coward. Skinny is scary.”

“Skinny Sisk is a teddy bear.”

“Yeah, with sharp teeth, claws, and a concealed weapon permit.”

Hoosier sighed and debated on telling the real story or the one he once fed to the press. The truth was a story deserving of its own _Lifetime_ movie, but the bullshit lies had kept them well-stocked in teenyboppers. Hell, some days he forgot just where the truth and the lies intersected. Runner was a mostly good kid, though. He wasn’t the kind to sell someone’s soul to the highest bidder. Besides, Skinny was on his ass lately about _socializing_ and _making new friends_.

“It’s the kind of story that almost follows the stereotypical kid wanting to be a star template.”

Runner shrugged. “I’ve got all afternoon.”

Hoosier nodded. “I have four sisters.”

“Jesus,” Runner said in disbelief.

He smiled. “Eh, they’re not all that bad. My baby sister introduced me to my first boyfriend. That’s beside the point. My elder sisters, Emma Rose and Gloria, are twins. And they are gorgeous, always have been. Momma got them into child modeling and then someone suggested they go to New York, sign up with one of those major fashion agencies.”

Runner grimaced. “Why do I have a feeling this doesn’t end well.”

“Because you’ve seen what New York City does to most young kids with dreams. My parents believed in Em and Glor, but they didn’t trust anyone else to watch over them. So all of us packed it up, left the farm in the care of my uncle, and moved to the urban jungle. It was golden for a few years, hell, I even attended a damn good performing arts school there, but shit changed.

One day Em and Glor just came home, in tears. Their jobs were drying up, they were told, at 17, they were too old, too fat, and too familiar. We didn’t have enough money right then to move back home, even with the girls and my parents working, we’d put aside their modeling money for college. 

My job at a bodega sure as hell wasn’t paying any bills. I’d already taken a few jobs on and off Broadway, winding up in the background of a chorus or two. I was fourteen, just got my Actor’s Equity card, and was desperate for any high paying job. Rumor went around that some other Broadway boys had joined some producer as a boy band, the next New Edition or some bullshit. They needed a new guy to replace Tommy Meehan. I figured, what the hell, and the rest is history.”

“You only joined 3B because Tommy Meehan dropped out?”

Hoosier nodded. “I really should send that man a fruit basket or something.” He pulled out his phone and texted Skinny that very idea.

It took less than a minute for a reply

> _I’m going to assume you’re serious and not taking any of Ray’s pills again. Besides, his Oscar is reward enough._

 

“Skinny vetoed the fruit basket?” Runner asked.

He nodded. “He has this unfounded hatred of them. Just because I accidentally got into one before he could remove the pineapple. It wasn’t like my allergic reaction was _that_ bad.”

Runner stared at him dumbfounded.

“What?”

“Skinny really is the only reason you’re still alive with all your limbs intact.”

“Hey, fuck you. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Skinny just does a _much_ better job with some added benefits.”

“Yeah, I just hope he gets a hell of a return on all he does for you.”

Hoosier was about to give a far from nice reply when Ray’s “singing” broke their conversation.

“Person, no Katy Perry before 1 AM, you know the rules.”

Ray gave him what probably passed for a vulgar gesture in Missouri before setting backstage to check the soundboard. 

“How the hell does Haldane put up with that?”

Hoosier shrugged. “Him and Eddie got a thing for strays. It’s almost admirable if it didn’t mean we had to find jobs for every charity case who comes stumbling in through the door. Granted, Lip’s just as bad, if not worse.”

Runner’s back straightened at the implied insult. “Hey, I was fine with working the diner. It was your buddy Toye who basically dragged me down here. I swear to god, I thought he was going to dump my body in a river somewhere if I said no.”

“There’s a reason Scorsese keeps bringing in Joe on all his projects.”

Runner’s thoughts on that manner were cut off as Chuckler Juergens and his band stumbled into the bar. They all looked tired, dirty, and far too road weary. All signs of a long and successful tour.

“You boys do know that show of yours doesn’t start for another four hours, right?” he asked.

“Shut up and feed us, you jackass,” Manny Rodriguez bitched.

“Do I look like a cook to you?”

“You look like a man capable of picking up a phone and ordering food,” J.P. Morgan said. “Something with fresh fruit, please. I’m fucking dying for a salad. I swear to god I almost got scurvy.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Loudmouth Howard cursed.

“Please, Hoosier,” Chuckler said. He was all earnest eyes, wide smiles, and already clinging to Runner’s back. It was hard as hell to say no to Chuckler, and he damn well knew it.

“This shit is the reason why I stayed in Hollywood for so long. You’re not supposed to play nice there.”  
Chuckler grinned in response.

******************

By the time Chuckler and his boys took the stage, _Allison’s_ was packed. Having Walt Hasser, Chuckler Juergens, and Snafu Shelton on a triple ticket was a guaranteed sell-out. Andy Haldane was even behind the bar to help Hoosier with the glut of orders. 

“Who do I need to blow to get a drink around here?”

Hoosier turned from the liquor rack to meet the far too smug face of Skinny Sisk.

“’Sup, pumpkin?”

“Nothing, butternut squash. Get me a jack and coke?”

Hoosier raised a brow. “You’re drinking.”

“Long day,” he said.

He shook his head and made a tsking sound, reaching out to smooth down Skinny’s hair. “I thought Lip just sent you to talk to that music critic?”

Skinny’s eyes narrowed. “Have you _met_ Webster?”

Hoosier tried to stop the smile tugging at his lips. “He can’t be that bad.”

“He’s not,” Skinny agreed. “He’s just exhausting.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am so desperate for a smoke.” His fingers scratched at his arm over his nicotine patch. It’s been three days since he quit this time.

“Poor Skinny,” Hoosier said. He leaned over the bar and palmed the back of his neck, trying to work some of the tension out.

Skinny tilted his head up, making the sort of that sounds he only made at home. “I’ll expect the full Hoosier Smith Experience when we get out of here.”

Hoosier smirked. “I guess I can pencil you in for an appointment.”

“Hey, girls, can someone give me some service down here?”

Hoosier straightened up to stare down the bar at the asshole who dared speak to them like that. While _Allison’s_ wasn’t a gay bar by any means, Andrew and Eddie never bothered to hide their relationship and it was a safe haven sort of establishment. They just didn’t tolerate the language and actions of bigoted assholes in here. 

He exchanged a glance with Andy who gave him a nod. Hoosier looked at Skinny and cocked his head to the side. He slid off his stool and mirrored Hoosier as they both walked down to the jackass. Hoosier made sure Brad Colbert, their country music hating bouncer, was at the ready before he gave the signal for Skinny to open his mouth.

Skinny gripped the man’s shoulder hard. “What’s your name?”

The man shook out of Skinny’s grasp. “Jameson,” he said.

“Well, Jameson, how about you step the fuck off my balls and wait your turn. Here’s a clue, that man behind the bar, he’s not here to deal with your bullshit attitude. If you want it your way, there’s a Burger King right around the corner. Now, you’re going to apologize to the nice bartender so he doesn’t call his very dear lawyer friend and get you slapped with a hate speech harassment lawsuit. Okay?”

Jameson nodded. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Hoosier rolled his eyes in response. “Sir, Brad Colbert, the very tall man standing silently right behind you with the pissed off look on his face, is going to escort you out of this establishment. While we can’t ban you, seeing as how that’s not our policy, we can ask you to refrain from coming back until you’ve learned some fucking manners.”

He tried not to laugh as Jameson turned around and met Brad Colbert. His attitude immediately went from frat boy bravado to shitting his pants. Colbert had that way about him. 

Skinny didn’t take his eyes off Jameson’s back until Brad hauled him out.

“Hate speech harassment lawsuit?” Hoosier asked.

He shrugged. “What the idiot drunks don’t know won’t hurt them. I’m going to go bother Runner now. Stop by on your break?”

Hoosier gave a salute in response before going back to his customers.

“All sorted?” Andy asked.

“Yeah, just a new guy with no manners and even less patience.”

“You okay?”

Hoosier smirked and patted Andy’s arm. “I appreciate the concern, Haldane, but I’ve been called much worse things than a lady in my life.”

“And you don’t have the balls to carry that title anyway,” Lena Riggi announced. She ducked behind the bar and joined them. “I’m volunteering my services tonight, Haldane. You can tell Eddie I’ll take my payment in three new songs.”

“Here to watch your golden meal ticket shine?” Hoosier asked.

Lena bumped him out of the way with her hip. “I like to gauge the crowd’s reaction. Sometimes you can only get that by hanging out at the bar. At least this way, if I get hit on, I get tips out of it.”

“That’s our Lena,” Andy said. 

The three of them were able to manage the crowd until it started to trickle off. Snafu and his boys took the stage as headliners and brought the house down. By 1 AM the only people left were the crew breaking down the stage and band members who were too drunk to drive home on their own. 

Hoosier took his sandwich and a beer over to the corner where Skinny and Chuckler were holding court, talking about the old 3B days.

“The absolute best, though,” Chuckler said, “was when Welshie decided to propose to Kitty. He got so drunk off his ass that when he finally managed to pop the question, he stumbled down on bended knee and ended up proposing to Johnny Martin.”

“The best part is what Kitty said the next morning though,” Hoosier interrupted. He squeezed in between Skinny and Snafu, slapping Snaf’s hand when he tried to steal one of the fries.

“Christ, I thought Harry was going to cry,” Lieb said. “She was all, _Harry, I can’t marry you because you’ve already proposed to Johnny and you’re a man of your word_.”

Those at the table who knew Kitty laughed especially hard at Lieb’s imitation. He had her accent down flat, but then again, Kitty as the stylist, and Lieb as the bus driver, spent a lot of time together. She was the one who gave Lieb the contacts he needed when he was a stylist, and eventually helped him establish his career as a touring manager. 

Chuckler shook his head. “Those were some crazy ass days. And I wasn’t even there for the worst.”

“Depends on how you define _worst_ ,” Skinny said.

Hoosier slapped him on the back of the head. “Only one of us is allowed to be the maudlin asshole in the relationship and that’s me. Besides, you’ve got to admit, Chuckler wasn’t there for the time Nix took every drug he could get his hands on and tried to do a superman off that balcony in London.”

“Is that why he always had a member of security and Winters as a roommate?” Chuckler asked.

Skinny nodded. “Nix lives life better as a functioning alcoholic rather than an alcoholic and a drug addict. Addictive personalities and this business are a match made in hell. You can try to put restrictions and shit on it, like Dick did, but when you’re that famous and raking in that much money? Someone will also be willing to get you something.”

Walt Hasser spoke up. “I’ve gotta ask, upon reflection, would you do it again?”

Hoosier nodded. It was a question that had come up often since he moved to Nashville, and he’d given it a lot of thought over time. “Look, it wasn’t prefect, and I can never have another career as a headlining act. No matter what I do now, it’s always going to be tied back to what I did then. Joe and Luz still have to deal with that, and they’re not even in music anymore. I survived the business, I’m still here, and I’m not bankrupt so I think that counts as a success. I never _wanted_ to be in one of the biggest pop acts of all time, but shit happens. I’ve had far too many good things come from it to make me dismiss it all because of the bad.”

He took a bite of his sandwich before continuing on.

“What you boys have to remember is that there’s no such thing as a rock star anymore. Most musicians starting these days have to hold down second jobs or constantly tour just to break even. Touring and merch, that’s where the money lies. If any one of you sign to major labels just remember you’re good enough on your own. You’ve got to make a brand, but that doesn’t mean wasting money on ridiculously tacky stage set-up, pyrotechnics, and music videos. Talent over auto tune and all that bullshit.”

“Wise words from a bartender,” Snafu said.

Lieb slapped him before Hoosier got the chance.

“How _did_ you become a bartender?” Ray asked.

Skinny stood up before he could answer. “That is a long ass story for another time. We’re going home, boys.”

“Dinner,” Hoosier said, pointing to his plate. 

“I’ll drive, you can eat, and we’ll return the plate in the afternoon.”

“See the shit I put up with,” Hoosier told the table.

“Yeah, Skinny still has to put up with _you_. He wins,” Chuckler said.

“Fuck you all,” Hoosier said as they left. 

Skinny wrapped an arm around his waist as they walked to the car. “You really aren’t that much of a burden.”

“I’m worth every penny,” Hoosier agreed.

Skinny kissed his temple before opening Hoosier’s door. Nothing else had to be said.


	15. Holes in the Armor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pseudo song-fic set of drabbles. Brief bits of tiny background on Hoosier/Skinny in Nashville ‘verse. The first 10 tracks of [this](http://8tracks.com/rivlee/holes-in-the-armor#mix_set_id=50029648) mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title from The Horrible Crowes' _Black Betty & the Moon_
> 
> **A/N:** Unbeated. Character background. For Kay.

**_Holes in the Armor_ **

1\. Black Betty and the Moon

_My love, my love, you’re the sting of the scorpion_

Skinny Sisk didn’t love Hoosier Smith because he was a kind man, or a good man. He loved him because Hoosier was inherently flawed. He was a mean son-of-a-bitch with self-destructive tendencies and an attitude few could handle in the long-term. Friends and family asked why he stayed with such a bastard, but Skinny never told the truth. Hoosier was a scared and desperate kid who got into the business to help his family. He’d built up armor and walls to survive the experience. He rarely allowed himself to be vulnerable around anyone. Except Skinny. He was always his weakest for him because he trusted Skinny to make everything okay. And Skinny? He knew he’d never find _anyone_ who would love and trust him that much. Devotion came in many forms, sometimes even with darkly twisted lips and a drinking problem.

2\. Nashville

_I came to you with a half-open heart/Dreams upon my back/Illusions of a brand-new start_

Lip was the one who suggested Nashville. Skinny was adrift after Patrick, Hoosier’s current fuck, pretty much told him that his services were no longer needed. It still made Skinny’s jaw clench; he had bruises along his knuckles thanks to the brick wall he decided to punch in L.A. over Patrick’s face. Hoosier had been unusually quiet about it all. So fuck it, and fuck him. 

Nashville was a chance to start over. No matter if it felt like running away and giving in, Skinny had to live for himself. He lit up a cigarette as he passed over the state line, leaving all the other shit behind him on the road. It was time for a new beginning. 

 

3\. Come Round Soon

_I could use another cigarette_

The fucker tried to kill himself. Not on purpose, no, of course not. That made it even worse. Skinny leaned against Nix’s sports car in the hospital parking lot. He let the familiar taste of the cigarette linger in his mouth. So much for quitting. 

“You going to be okay, Skinny?” Lip asked.

He shook his head. There was no _okay_. He fucking knew he shouldn’t have stayed away. _This_ is what happened when he decided to trust the care of Hoosier to someone else. He knew fucking _Patrick_ was going to end this way. 

“I’m going to have to stay out here for a while, Lip.”

Lip smiled. “I’m sure your boss will understand the need for a sudden sabbatical.”

Skinny laughed, the sound twisted, almost sobbing from his lips. “He’s the softhearted type.”

“It’ll work out, Skinny, you’ll see.”

He could almost believe Lip when he said that, but Skinny knew better. It never worked out. Not when it came to Hoosier.

 

4\. I Owe You A Love Song

_I owe you a love song/So much i could say/I owe you a love song/Words that i can't say_

“Skinny looks ready to murder you,” Toye said. 

“He’d be justified,” Hoosier agreed.

Joe shook his head and settled down on the side of his hospital bed. “If you don’t stop fucking around with him _I’m_ going to have to kill you, Bill.”

It took an effort not to roll his eyes. “I’m not fucking around with him. Skinny is just—” 

“—everything you’re ever going to want but refuse to let yourself have out of some misguided loss of self-respect bullshit?”

Toye had grown far too damn smug since working with his new lifestyle coach and trainer. Reyes was poisoning his brain with enlightenment. 

“You can be as silent as you want, Hoos, but it’s not going to change facts. You know Skinny’s going to stay here and clean up your life _again_. That’s not fucking fair, to you or him. Get your shit together.”

Hoosier squirmed, grimacing when he pulled on the iv in his arm. “I know just how much I owe him, okay. You don’t have to tell me how fucking grateful I need to be. I don’t have a magic wand to wave it all away, okay, Joe? And besides, Skinny’s messing around with Shifty, remember?”

Toye scoffed. “I think that’s over now. It’s kind of hard to swallow the knowledge that you’ll always be number two in your partner’s life. For Shifty, maybe even number three.”

Hoosier wrinkled his nose. He didn’t like the idea of Shifty and Skinny together _anyway_ and tried not to dwell on it. Skinny deserved a good guy, and Shifty certainly qualified, but he was also still serving in the Army. Skinny didn’t need to put up with someone else’s DADT bullshit. 

“Might be for the best,” he mumbled.

Toye lightly slapped the side of his face. “You are so fucked up.”

It wasn’t a lie.

 

5\. Bones

_Be sure your sins will find you out/Your past will hunt you down/And return to tell on you_

 

There was a thickness to the air. It remind Hoosier of years long past; the thick summer nights at the Sisk homestead, pressed up against Skinny’s back, tasting his sweat, the sweet smell of his hair filling every part of Hoosier’s senses. 

It was so much simpler when they were stupid kids seeking out another warm body. There was more to gamble now, but Hoosier was damn good at denying himself. He didn’t _deserve_ a man like Skinny. Didn’t matter what the hell he wanted, Skinny needed something more. He was the type who needed the happy home and the domesticity that Hoosier never knew if he could give. 

On nights like this though, Hoosier _craved_ him. He remembered Skinny as he came apart, wrapped around Hoosier with teeth biting lips and fingertips blunt. It didn’t help that the man was right before him, packing and taping up all of Hoosier’s belongings. There was such a strength in Skinny, a need to protect, and heal. Hoosier knew it was wrong to take all that and give nothing in return, but he couldn’t help it. 

Who would turn down a Skinny if they had him in their life?

 

6\. Slow Like Honey

_But my big secret/Gonna hover over your life/Gonna keep you reaching_

 

“You should just seduce him. Again.”

Skinny choked on his scotch when Nix so casually offered that piece of advice. 

“What? You think none of us figured out you two were fucking? Hoosier’s not exactly quiet and those hotel walls weren’t exactly soundproof.”

“Fuck, Nix, you can’t just say that.”

Nix’s eyebrows twitched. “I’m pretty sure I just did.”

Skinny shook his head. “I’ve had his body before, Nix, many times. I owe myself more.”

Nix nodded. “Still, wouldn’t hurt to get something to tie you over? You are in desperate need of a good lay, Skinny. If Hoosier won’t ante up, I’m sure we can find someone willing.”

Skinny laughed, genuine, long, and loud. Liebgott was more than willing, but they were both looking for something else. It was good to find distraction in someone he trusted and genuinely liked but it wasn't enough.

“Hoosier’s seeing someone,” he explained. “A nice girl named Sara.”

“That’s going to end well.” Nix silently toasted the inevitable destruction of Hoosier’s current relationship. “I take it you’ve already designed exit strategies for when it goes south?”

Nix knew him too damn well. He’d already found the perfect property for Hoosier. It was reminiscent of the Smith’s horse farm. The house was huge; far too much space for one person, but hell, Skinny needed a new home too. After the last flood his townhouse was shot. Zielinski had already diverted enough of the funds from one of Hoosier’s accounts to make an offer. It might have been presumptuous, but Skinny knew Hoosier better than anyone else. There were no secrets between them, even if so much still went unspoken.

“You’ll need to get him out of L.A. after what happened last time,” Nix continued.

“I’m working on it,” he promised.

 

7\. Northern Downpour

_I missed your skin when you were east/You clicked your heels and wished for me_

 

Skinny hadn’t been by in a half-a-year. He was on the East Coast doing some shit for Lip and Shifty that kept him from Hoosier’s side. 

He was pretty pissed about that actually. It was like their friends were deliberately playing keep away. Even Sara said he was worse than usual. When even his girlfriend said he was going through withdrawals from his platonic life partner, it was probably a bad sign. 

Not that Sara cared all that much lately. She was fascinated with some young kid who called himself a musician but looked more like a Robert Smith wannabe jackass. Hoosier was getting too old for all the bullshit that came with dating young women who obsessed over boys wearing make-up. It didn’t make them misfits, or badasses, just more in a long line of glam rock imitators who thought the epitome of punk music was Blink-182.

Alright, perhaps that wasn’t _all_ of them but Hoosier was nothing if not bitter. 

He dug out his cellphone from the pile of shit on his bedside table and called Skinny. It shouldn’t matter that it was 3am in New York. Skinny always answered for him.

“I fucking hate you,” his rough voice greeted over the line.

Hoosier smiled so wide it almost hurt. He heard the familiar snick of the lighter in the background and tried not to laugh. Clearly, Skinny was back to smoking. 

“Gave up on the patch?”

“I’ve had a long fucking day and now you’re calling me. I won’t be able to get through this without nicotine. What’s up?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Skinny sighed, probably deliberately into his phone just to make Hoosier flinch. “It’s nothing, Hoos, just seeing too many young kids out here snorting coke and popping pills. There’s no one around here to take care of them and apparently I’m too _old_ to get it. I hope they realize they’re putting all their money down their throats and up their noses. No label is going to bankroll them for life. At least Nix did all this shit with some sort of elegance.”

“I don’t think puking on the Vice President counts as elegance.”

“Then they really shouldn’t have invited Nix of all people to a White House Celebration of the D.A.R.E program.”

Hoosier laughed so hard he snorted. Three minutes of talking to Skinny and already his headspace was clearing.

“You going to come see me soon?”

He was met with silence. 

“Skinny?”

There was a harsh breath and some mumbled words. “I’ll try, Hoosier.”

He wanted to tell Skinny that he missed him; that he needed him here in L.A. to keep all the fucking demons at bay. It’d been years since he and Skinny shared the same space and he missed that security and sense of home. 

“I’ll be waiting,” he said. 

 

8\. Come Back Song

_You’re on the feel good side of leaving/And I’m the backside of a mule_

Hoosier looked at his ticket one more time. Direct flight from LAX to Nashville International with four hours of business class to enjoy. He’d only talked to Lip in the past few days, pissed that Skinny came to L.A., dropped the ticket off, and didn’t even bother to say _hi_ after breaking and entering. 

He had to admit that Skinny had a lot to be pissed about what with the years of justifiable anger and frustration. Hoosier wasn’t quite sure just what the move to Nashville was going to mean. He _wanted_ it, but the possible consequences were making him sick. He’d already chewed what felt like a whole bottle of TUMS. 

He knew just how damn lucky he was Skinny hadn’t left him to rot in L.A. Hoosier had a lot to make-up for; he wasn’t sure _how_ he was going to do it. He didn’t want things to be weird between them but nothing had been _right_ since the hospital stay. Five years of pussyfooting bullshit and Hoosier didn’t think he could tolerate the status quo for much longer. He just needed to know how Skinny wanted to play it. 

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the faux-leather seat of the airport lounge. The familiar strains of Darius Rucker’s _Come Back Song_ chimed over the speakers. He opened his eyes and glared up at the ceiling, silently cursing the gods of country music who always sent the most appropriate songs at the most inopportune times. 

 

9\. You Hold Me Together

_I shoulda been long forgotten/Just a footnote down at the bottom/Of a page in the book of what coulda been's_

Hoosier woke up to the familiar sound of Skinny’s snoring. He was sprawled out over the bed, his boxers half falling off his ass and wearing only one sock. It was pretty damn hard to fight the urge to grab his phone and take a picture, but hell, Hoosier was sure he didn’t look much better. 

They were in Skinny’s room. He didn’t remember crawling in here, but he was so tired and sore after work last night he just needed a bed. It was nice of Skinny to be so accommodating. Hoosier poked him in the ribs, trying not to laugh when he startled awake.

“I’m up,” Skinny said. He shook his head and coughed. “I’m up, I swear.”

“Great, now get me coffee.”

Skinny turned to glare at him, eyes squinting at the early morning sun coming in through the blinds.

Hoosier tried his best for a sincere smile. “Please?”

“Lazy bastard.”

Hoosier would’ve said something but Skinny _was_ getting out of bed and walking toward the hallway.

“And a donut,” he yelled.

Skinny flipped him off. 

Hoosier was starting to go back to sleep when his phone vibrated with a text.

> Get your ass down here. I’m too tired to carry hot coffee upstairs.

“You’re fired,” Hoosier yelled through the open bedroom door.

“You’d die of starvation without me,” he yelled back.

The smell of bacon wafting up the stairs stopped any further bitching from Hoosier. 

 

10\. You’re the One

_Sure in my heart/Happy and free/You’re the one/You’re the one/You’re the one for me._

“Seriously, Skinny, how the hell do you put up with him?” Ron Gibson asked.

Skinny wasn’t one for telling his and Hoosier’s whole history. It was hard to explain to a young, innocent kid like Gibson that he _couldn’t_ settle for anyone else. Hoosier was it for him, period. Thank fucking god it was finally mutual.

“Sometimes true love comes with a drinking habit and sarcasm, Gibson, what can I tell you?”

“But, you don’t even seem to _like_ each other.”

Skinny tried not to choke. He put his beer down and pointed to Hoosier behind the bar. “That man, that fucked up, short tempered, foul mouthed, dog loving, laundry folding, apple pie baking, _Scrubs_ watching, charity-donating jackass is the only possible choice for me. We’re pretty damn perfectly matched, Gibson. More so than most people realize or are willing to admit.”

Gibson shrugged. “I just don’t see it.”

“Wait until you meet someone who you can truly, honestly trust. Who knows everything about you, good, bad, and criminal, and still doesn’t and won’t use it against you. You haven’t found that yet. Your little arrangement with Runner doesn’t count. You two are friends, you get along, and it’s nice, right?”

“Yeah.”

“When you're sent out around the country on jobs, do you ever call him at 4am because you miss him so much that you just need to hear him breathe before you can go to sleep?”

“No, because I’m not creepy.”

Skinny patted him on the shoulder. “Just wait until it happens.” He took a swig of his beer. “Though I pray you have less drug abuse, teeny-boppers, accidental overdoses, and co-dependency in your future.”

“You are _really_ fucked up, Skinny.”

He nodded. “Now you know why Hoosier is the _only_ one for me.”


	16. Breathe You In

Andy looked up from his stack of bills and invoices to find Eddie standing in the doorway of their office. _Allison’s_ didn’t open for another three hours and the crew wouldn’t arrive for another two. Eddie should’ve been home sleeping in their bed with Bocephus at the end, right where Andy left him. 

“Eddie, I respect your rituals before starting a set, but five hours early is a little excessive.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and sauntered into the office with all the cool confidence that came with a man grown comfortable in his own skin. He always seemed so self-assured and Andy knew it was a trait others admired in him. They didn’t see the Eddie that gripped his hair in frustration and cursed God seven different ways because he wasn’t back at the family homestead when something went down. They didn’t see the monster in the morning who didn’t become human until his first cup of coffee. They didn’t see Eddie the way only Andy did or could. 

“I could’ve sworn before we went to bed last night you promised to take the morning off,” Eddie said. He raised an eyebrow at the stacks of paper surrounding the desk. “You’re a liar, Mr. Haldane.”

Andy laughed low as he leaned back to accept Eddie onto his lap. He knew the chair would hold them; he’d built it himself. Warm hands palmed the back of his neck and he met those teasing lips in a brief kiss. He could taste a hint of hot chocolate there.

“You stopped by Mae’s and didn’t bring me anything,” he accused.

“Those who sneak out of bed don’t get hot chocolate made by the gods,” Eddie chastised.

“I said I’d work from home this morning,” Andy clarified.

Eddie raised a brow. “Andrew Allison Haldane, I know we’re here for multiple hours a day, but this sure as shit ain’t our home. Not our real one. Not the one where you’re supposed to be since you’re recovering from walking pneumonia because you’re a jackass who doesn’t listen to his husband when he tells you to keep your contagious behind in bed where it belongs.”

Andy Haldane was a grown-ass man who did not pout. He did get petulant though. “I never finished getting the rest of our documents copied so I couldn’t work from home. I can’t work on the business’ taxes without all the invoices.”

Eddie shook his head. “It’s the second week of January, dumbass; you’re not supposed to be working on taxes at all.” He gripped the back of Andy’s neck. “Please let me drive you home, so you can go back to bed and gets some proper rest. It’ll do wonder for my nerves.”

“Your nerves are made of titanium,” Andy said.

“Not when it comes to you,” Eddie said. “My hands were shaking the whole way down here, and not in the good way.”

Andy tried to look anywhere that wasn’t Eddie’s face. He knew he scared the hell out of him when he’d blacked out from fever and dehydration. It was a damn good thing it happened here in the bar and not out at the house where they were at least a solid hour from a hospital. He was feeling much better now, but hell, he knew if the roles were reversed he would be acting twelve times worse. It was a testament to how well they knew each other; Andy wouldn’t give into demands, but pleading was another thing entirely. 

He slightly nodded in agreement. 

Eddie released a shuddery breath and muttered, “Thank you, Jesus.”

 

*********************

Bocephus was waiting for them at the door. He nearly knocked Andy over when they were inside before thundering up the stairs to get whatever sock, ball, or frisbee had struck his fancy this week. Andy sat down on the couch and admitted to himself that maybe he wasn’t feeling as well as he thought. A cold glass of water pressed itself against his forehead and he opened his eyes to find Eddie staring down at him.

“I’m good,” he promised.

“Drink,” Eddie insisted.

Andy took the cup and watched as Eddie went about the living room digging out extra blankets, pillows, and stacks of dvds. 

“I see my day’s been set for me,” Andy said.

Eddie slid in next to him. “I’m going to personally make sure you get a day of rest, even though you’re feeling better. I know you. The second I leave, you’ll try to do something stupid like rewire the attic.”

“You’ve got to leave for your set,” Andy said.

“I most certainly do not,” Eddie argued. “As my own boss, I can decide when and where I play. Just because I always play Thursday afternoons, doesn’t mean I’m required to do so. Mike’s got the opening of the bar covered for us; Ray agreed to come in early to make sure the soundboard is working; Snafu agreed to take my set. It’ll be a treat for our regulars.”

“How did you swing that and how much do we owe for it?”

“Snaf’s doing us a favor while also getting a chance to try out his new material without having to deal with all the major label execs crowding him. He gets to be regular old Merriell Shelton performing at a hole-in-the-wall while reliving the simpler times he misses.” Eddie patted Andy’s leg. “Stop worrying about possible loss of profits from his band drinking on our tab and if the crowd will violate the fire code. There is nothing you can do about if from this couch.”  
That was his Eddie; always there with a back-up plan when Andy didn’t realize he’d even need one.

He wrapped his fingers in the curls of Eddie’s hair and kissed his forehead. “All my stubbornness aside to get better by will, I appreciate you taking care of and putting up with me.”

“I appreciate you giving me the privilege of growing old with you.” Eddie dragged his thumb over the laugh lines on Andy’s face. “These are some of the most precious things in the world to me.”

“Charmer,” Andy said before he kissed Eddie’s fingers.

Eddie leaned over him, boxing him in with arms on either side of Andy’s head and looked down. It was that deep, focused look that had stolen Andy’s breath ever since he first witnessed this man on the stage.

“You look like you’re thinking,” Andy said.

Eddie nodded. “I am. I think back on what I was like as a young man; my goals and dreams when I was still a snotty-nosed kid trying to figure out chord progressions. I remember those years where playing a song and getting off with a pretty boy were all I claimed to need. Then this son-of-a-bitch from Massachusetts just strolled on into my life and changed it all. You made me want more than the basics I told myself were all I needed. You made me be selfish in a completely different way I never expected to find. So, do me a favor and try not to give me a heart attack the next time you’re sick.”

Andy could’ve played it off with a snide remark or a mock salute, but this was Eddie’s genuine concern and that was something precious never to be trifled. He just lifted his arms up and rested them on the small of Eddie’s back. It was all that needed to be said, the grin over Eddie’s face telling all. He carefully lowered his weight onto Andy’s body, flawlessly fitting into all the spaces and slots between them. More than love was required to get through life, but days like this, Andy liked to believe Eddie was all he needed.


	17. Offer Me and Drink Me Skinny/Hoosier for Kay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Kay, who prompted me on tumblr

_“Wanna drink?”_

Skinny wasn’t surprised to hear Hoosier’s voice on the other end of the line. He wasn’t surprised he called at three in the morning. He wasn’t surprised he was drunk. He wasn’t surprised that the words coming out of Hoosier’s mouth were slurred together. He wasn’t surprised that his hands fumbled from the non-exsistent pack of smokes on his bedside table.

Skinny had quit again. It seemed the thing to do. New state, new city, new home, new chance at kicking the habits. There were some vices that just wouldn’t go, though.

He pinched his brow and tried not to sigh into the phone. “I do now,” he answered.

Hoosier’s laugh was muffled. “Bed’s empty. Come back?”

Skinny’s fingers clenched hard enough that he worried about ruining his phone’s casing. He forced himself to relax. “I ain’t your pimp, Hoosier.”

“Missed you,” Hoosier mumbled before going silent. It was only the soft snoring that clued Skinny into what happened.

“I really fucking hate you some nights,” Skinny confessed before he hung up.

*******

“Want a drink?”

Skinny jumped when a cold beer made contact with the back of his neck. He glared up at Hoosier and cursed at the fucking bright California sunshine in his eyes. He didn’t want a fucking drink. He never wanted to drink again. Fucking tequila. Fucking clubs. Fucking Hoosier. 

“How are you up?” Skinny asked. There was a pain behind his eyes that had a first and last name: Bill and Smith.

Hoosier shrugged and took a pull of his beer. “Never went to sleep. That girl come home with us, remember? Sara? You passed out in her lap? I had to make it up to her. She was all traumatized.”

Sara—dark hair, light eyes, airy laugh, and an apparent genuine interest in Hoosier that had nothing to do with his back account. She’d be good for Hoosier, if she could survive everything that came with him. 

Skinny tried to tell himself the bitter taste in his mouth was just the hangover. 

*******

“Drink this.”

A mug of hot chocolate was pressed into Skinny’s hands. It felt good, even if he couldn’t taste it. “Thanks,” he rasped out.

Hoosier kissed his forehead and pulled the blanket tighter around Skinny’s shoulders. “Can’t have you dying on me. Who’d make sure the bills are paid on time? Who’d feed the dogs? Who’d feed _me_? Can’t be weepy over your corpse yet. You’ve got to give me a few more decades.”

Skinny wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to risk the coughing fit. He took a sip of hot chocolate before dropping his head on Hoosier’s shoulder instead. “I’ll see what I can do.”

*****************************

_Offer Me_

Hoosier Smith remained well aware that the gods smiled on him the day Skinny came into his life, and while he might’ve taken that for granted once, he was trying his best to not be the biggest asshole in the world anymore.

Not that he could ever be _the_ biggest when Webster was still around, but he didn’t have to actively make life more difficult for Skinny.

Even though it meant having to wade through the unwashed masses of the local Wal-Mart, and god what Hoosier wouldn’t give for a Target in this part of the city, it was worth it. Skinny had his eye on this particular flat-screen since Thanksgiving, and even though he _refused_ to buy it because their current set was in perfect working order, Hoosier didn’t give a fuck. Skinny deserved nice things, Hoosier had too much money, and the Superbowl was in two weeks.

"You bought me a huge-ass television," Skinny said when he finally stumbled out of bed.

Hoosier could’ve waxed poetic on the pillow creases marked on his skin, the proof of an athletic night from his hair, or the fact he only had one sock on but he was too distracted by how low Skinny’s boxers rested on his hips.

"Stop thinking about sex. At least let me have my coffee." Skinny ran a hand over his face. "How the hell did you get up before me?"

Hoosier shrugged. “Haven’t slept yet.”

Skinny tasted like mint toothpaste when he stopped to give Hoosier a kiss on the way to the coffee pot. “Thank you.”

Hoosier rested his hands low on Skinny’s hips before he could get away. “I did it for purely selfish reasons, you know.”

"Got to keep me around with fancy gifts, right?" Skinny asked.

"Well, it’s either that or I have to train someone else to cater to my every whim. Ain’t worth it."


	18. Home Again  (Hoosier/Skinny)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a tumblr prompt from amorekay who asked for Hoosier/Skinny and "welcome home kiss" and/or "surprised kiss" so I decided to combine the two.

Three weeks.

It’d been three weeks since Hoosier had last seen Skinny. Three weeks since they kissed goodbye after Hoosier’s shift ended at two in the morning. Three weeks since Skinny boarded that tour bus with Snaf, Lieb, and Snaf’s entire band, to serve as the head of security until he felt like he could leave Snaf’s safety in the hands of the newly hired security crew. Three weeks of Hoosier going home and only having their dogs, Minnie and Butch, for conversation and company. It was almost enough to make him willingly contemplate a vacation back to the family farm.

It fucking sucked.

And Hoosier was pissed off. And he was pissed that he didn’t really have any good reason to be pissed off or anyone to really be pissed off at.

It wasn’t Snaf’s fault he’d gotten so popular he needed an actual security crew. It wasn’t Lip’s fault he was responsible and shit and had to protect his investment both in Coconut & Rhyme as a whole and Snaf as the talent. And it sure as hell wasn’t Skinny’s fault for not only doing what Lip paid him for, but for also being damn good at his job. No one in the business knew how to handle contrary trouble-making musicians like Skinny.

It was just…Hoosier hadn’t really slept in two weeks and five days. The house was too quiet. The bed was too cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he just felt this honest to god lonely in his life.

It’s not like the folks at Allison’s hadn’t tried to occupy him or cheer him up, but even his new close friends like Runner couldn’t come close to touching what he had with Skinny–the shittiest part of it all, falling in love with your best friend and closest confidant. It was co-dependent as fuck, and Hoosier has told Skinny as much the last time he talked to him.

“Just don’t burn the house down or order everything Amazon has to offer,” Skinny had told him.

Hoosier had actually taken a three hour nap after that conversation.

Tonight he couldn’t get a hold of Skinny. He hoped it just meant business as usual and not some issue. Hoosier didn’t want to stumble into work tomorrow to the news of Snaf inciting a riot or some shit. Hoosier knew Skinny rarely answered his phone when he was on the job like that. He also knew that the few times Skinny had refused to take Hoosier’s calls was when they were at their worst.

“Fuck,” Hoosier muttered as he ran a hand over his face. He was never going to get even an attempt at sleep if he kept staring at his phone all night.

Eddie had given him two days off, told him he looked like shit, and ordered him to go home and sleep for a day and eat at least six solid meals before coming back to work.

KFC had helped with the meal part at least. Now Hoosier was staring at the walls of his stupid large mansion and wondering if that was mold or just really old cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling.

“Fuck this,” Hoosier said. He gathered Butch up in his arms and took the stairs three at a time. Minnie followed them, looking as maudlin as Hoosier felt, and turning her head this way and that as if she was trying to catch Skinny’s scent.

The three of them made a miserable heap as they settled in the bed. Hoosier dug out the sleeping mask he’d stolen from one of his sisters years ago, pulled out his iPod, and stuck his earbuds in. He wouldn’t think about the fact that his phone was downstairs. He wouldn’t think about the fact that the warm body taking up half his bed was one of the dogs, and the weight on his chest was the other. He was going to sleep damn it, and it was going to be a decent night’s rest.

Even if Steve Nicks was currently ordering him to _stand back, stand back_.

********

“Jesus, Hoos, are you trying to strangle yourself in your sleep?”

Hoosier blinked awake as his earbuds were tugged out.

“How many fucking times have I told you not to sleep with these in? You have a ludicrously expensive sound system installed throughout the house. Use it.”

“Skinny?” Hoosier asked.

“Were you expecting someone else to crawl into our bed?” Skinny asked.

Hoosier pulled off his sleeping mask and flailed a hand around to turn on the bedside lamp, ignoring Butch’s annoyed growl as he moved, and Skinny’s pained grunt as Hoosier smacked him in the face, until finally soft light flooded the bedroom.

Skinny was still leaning over him. He looked exhausted, smelled in need of a shower, and was so goddamned beautiful Hoosier almost wanted to cry. Almost. He pulled Skinny down for a kiss instead, smiling at Skinny’s surprised grunt, and smiling even wider when he tasted mint gum instead of cigarette smoke.

“Someone’s still smoke free,” Hoosier said as he pulled back.

Skinny shrugged. “Someone found the graphically detailed pamphlet on what cancerous lungs look like in his luggage.” He settled over Hoosier, leaning down to press a series of soft kisses to his forehead, his nose, the side of his mouth. “It’s almost like you care.”

“It take too much time to train someone else,” Hoosier said, even as his hands gripped Skinny’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. “You home?”

Skinny nodded. “Patterson is pretty damn unflappable. Snaf respects that in some odd sort of way. I left them in Kansas City. Picked up a rental and drove through the entire way.”

“I missed you,” Hoosier said, suddenly needing to be completely open and honest. “I really fucking missed you.”

Skinny leaned down until their foreheads pressed together. He tangled his fingers with Hoosier’s own and rested them on Hoosier’s chest.

“I’m always going to have to leave sometimes,” he said.

“I know,” Hoosier said.

“I’ll always come home to you though,” Skinny said.

“I know,” Hoosier repeated, softer this time, but certain.

“Guess what?” Skinny quietly asked.

“What?” Hoosier asked.

“I missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bits of things always appearing on my [tumblr](http://antiquecompass.tumblr.com/).


End file.
